


i'm different

by throwaway18



Category: BLACKPINK (Band), Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Slow Burn, minor jenlisa, wenrene - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-02-24 00:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwaway18/pseuds/throwaway18
Summary: when wendy returns to seoul, being mistaken as a homeless person has been far from her expectations.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy, Jennie Kim/Lalisa Manoban | Lisa
Comments: 52
Kudos: 184





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this story is, of course, purely fictional and is for my creative outlet
> 
> please do not link this story to any of the girls as i respect their privacy, and again, i write my stories out of entertainment and nothing more
> 
> with that said, please ship responsibly and be kind to one another
> 
> <3
> 
> (cross-posted on aff)

****

_“come on baby, don’t hesitate and come to me quickly”_

_i’m different by hi suhyun feat. bobby_

****

***

It’s a typical Saturday night for Jennie.

Just as her every other Saturday nights go, they have once again overstayed at the restaurant, which has stolen their chances of getting a decent table at the local bar. She doesn’t mind settling at the seats in front of the bartender (the nice guy has memorized their usual and serves them complimentary drinks whenever they have lost another battle of snagging a booth), and she would have preferred to sit here if it isn’t for the easy access random strangers have to insert themselves mid-conversation.

Like, rude much? But whatever. Jennie’s used to the bar culture by now.

Just as her every other Saturday nights go, most of these strangers have their eyes locked and set on her gorgeous next-door neighbor, Bae Irene. Jennie harbors no envious feelings towards her friend (she has her fair share of onlookers, thank you very much), not when _gorgeous_ hardly scrapes the surface in describing the beauty Irene has been graciously blessed with. Even Jennie has had the wind knocked out of her upon meeting her a year ago (she then asked herself how unreal does this person have to be). There’s no denying in the power Irene’s striking features have on passersby, like there’s a magnetic pull luring them to the empty seat next to the twenty-seven year-old.

It’s always a spectacle to behold, witnessing their fellow patron—a man in this instance—boldly engaging with the ever so accommodating but passive woman who Jennie hopes would properly give him a time of day. The younger brunette has been tipping her glass of gin and tonic in her hand, watching the ice melt and blend with the rest of her drink, acting as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping on the guy telling Irene enthusiastically about the promotion he’s had at his new job (a wrong move by the way, since they’re here to pretend that their work lives cease to exist). He must have thought his loaded bank account would have her neighbor put her guard down and cling to his arm.

Ten minutes have passed from his arrival, and Jennie glances at him from her peripheral. Seated two seats away from her, the guy is surprisingly handsome, clean shaven and presentable, a solid ten in her book. He’s got this killer pearly-white smile and is devoted to the woman beside him. But the mention of his job and money-making skills did reduce his overall score, though he’s an impartial candidate apart from that. Unlike most eager men, he maintains Irene’s personal space, putting the appropriate distance between acquaintances, so Jennie bumps him up a point.

She shifts her gaze to Irene’s side profile, half of the older woman’s features still not betraying a hint of interest, yet she nods and mumbles words of affirmation at the man’s sentences. Her sitting position obscures Jennie from being able to fully see her expression, leaving the younger woman to decode the situation through the snippets of her responses.

Jennie takes a second to order another drink to replace her empty glass, only turning in her seat to find the man gone, and Irene, whose body is now facing her, helping herself with her margarita.

“Really? Him too?” Jennie lets the disappointment tide in her tone. After a year of knowing her next-door neighbor, she shouldn’t be surprised. Getting Irene to finally date is a hopeless cause. It doesn’t stop Jennie from hoping this night could be different.

Irene downs the contents of her drink and scoffs. She swipes the bits of liquor below her lips with her thumb, then narrows her eyes at Jennie. “ _Prettiest woman I’ve seen tonight_ is something I’ve heard one too many,” she drones, obviously unimpressed by the recycled pick-up line. She sets her glass firm on the counter.

Something behind Jennie causes Irene to quirk an eyebrow, but the younger woman dismisses it, focusing on important matters than the insignificant people around them.

“Okay, but you’re going to cave in to one of them someday, right?”

“Don’t know, don’t particularly care. I’m not interested.”

“When are you ever,” Jennie mutters the words as more of a statement than a rhetorical question. Based on the previous interactions with both male and female species, the chances of her neighbor getting wooed until her bones grow weak from the giddiness is slim to none. In fact, she couldn’t recall to a time when Irene had given an ounce of interest. “Unnie. Your romantic life is none of my business, but it seriously wouldn’t hurt if you—”

“Incoming drunkie at six o’clock.”

The steel legs of the barstool drag against the floor, and before Jennie could protest at Irene for the petty punishment on broaching the topic of her dating life, the older woman already has her feet planted on the floor. The younger brunette would have followed her, but with no one else watching over their tab, Jennie relents dejectedly.

So Irene struts away smugly, probably to the toilets or to wherever she feels like escaping from Jennie’s grilling, leaving a trail of dazzled patrons giving her a double-take at the sway of her hips. She pretty much does whatever she wants with little to no explanation, such as leaving her seat whenever she’s in no mood to discuss about something. Jennie doesn’t take offense to it. It’s a part of the strong independent woman she’s got going on, never bending over backwards for anyone who isn’t deemed relevant in her life (Jennie isn’t actually irrelevant, Irene just has a knack for pissing her off once in a while) and does everything according to her volition.

As Irene disappears from Jennie’s line of sight, said drunkie appears, sloppily plopping onto the chair her friend has vacated and leans one side of her body against the edge of the counter. Her messed up cropped brown hair and lazy half-smile indicates she has filled her alcohol quota for today.

“Hi,” the drunkie greets her with her half-lidded eyes.

“Hey,” Jennie greets back monotonously.

“Mind if I sit here?”

This drunkie is apparently polite.

“Can’t do much about it if you’re already there,” Jennie says coolly, sloshing her gin and tonic around the glass before taking a sip. The unwanted company would have made her uneasy elsewhere, but worries of harassment and persistent drunks are close to non-existent at this bar, considering its reputation for prioritizing the safety of their customers. It’s the main reason why they have chosen the place to be their Saturday night hang-out spot. The drinks aren’t overpriced, the chill ambience is a great stress reliever, plus the bartenders are total gentlemen.

Her slight disinterest must have caught the person beside her because the drunkie pipes up, snapping Jennie to face her once more instead of staring at her drink like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Don’t worry,” the drunken woman slurs her reassurance, increasing the volume of her voice to compete against the thumping R&B music. Totally unnecessary when Jennie can still hear her fine. The drunkie goes, “I have a girlfriend.”

“And so do I.”

“Well, where is she then? Leaving you all alone in this place with sticky sweaty people.”

Jennie rolls her eyes. “It’s you, you dumbass.”

“Oh.”

The information gives Lisa a moment of clarity, the reminder clearing the vapor from her distorted memory. She blinks hard, sort of like rebooting the system in her brain responsible for remembering crucial details about herself such as the identity of her own girlfriend, nodding once, then twice, then mumbles, “Right. Worry not then, _girlfriend_ , I shall now whisk you away from the prying eyes of that creeper few seats back.”

Jennie furrows her brows. She glances over her shoulder, meeting the eyes of a concerned staff. The guy mouths to her subtly if she wishes to have the supposed drunk stranger escorted out, and she has to suppress the urge of another eyeroll at her girlfriend’s stupidity. She clears the misunderstanding with a shake of her head. However, Lisa still stupidly glares at the staff and lowers a hand on Jennie’s butt, her empirical logic telling her that the problem could be solved through a public ass-grab.

The chair Lisa is sitting on wobbles from angling herself forward, and the laws of gravity are bound to apply themselves through an impending crash onto the floor. Jennie thankfully manages to balance both of their bodies, supporting Lisa’s weight on her arms without forgetting to curse at her lightweight of a girlfriend.

Irene returns from God knows where, standing in between the seated couple.

“Unnie!” Lisa glances at her. She jabs a thumb at Jennie. “She’s my girlfriend! Can you believe it?”

“Yes, Lisa.” The sides of Irene’s eyes wrinkle themselves, amused by the temporary amnesia the taller woman is in. “Been five years now.”

“Five years?” Lisa sucks in a breath of utter shock. She looks like she’s about to cry. “How did I get so lucky?” She squeaks out, lips trembling.

Jennie sighs.

“Need help in taking her home?” Irene asks, her intonation taking a shot at Jennie’s tiresome predicament.

The digital clock on the wall behind the bar blares a neon red _1:30 AM._ They have been in here for hours, and with Lisa’s inebriation demanding a future trip to the restroom, it would be sensible to call it a night (or morning?).

Jennie gathers their bags, mounting her girlfriend’s uncoordinated feet to the floor. “Yes please.”

***

Just as her every other Saturday nights go, they ride a cab heading for Lisa’s shared apartment with a colleague at a prime location overseeing the Han River in Mapo-gu.

Irene is quite short, shorter than Jennie, so she doesn’t befall the inconvenience on her neighbor of having to tag along in dragging her inebriated girlfriend whose feet somehow have a mind of their own. But being the kindhearted person that she is, Irene never abandons Jennie to carry the intoxicated giant by herself. She would insist on walking together, up the elevator and into Lisa’s bedroom, sometimes assisting Jennie in nagging Lisa to go to sleep.

Except for tonight, as their cab has passed by a woman exiting a neighboring convenience store, frowning at what seems to be spare change in her palm then looking back at the food display by the window with longing. Wearing a worn out short-sleeved hoodie and a pair of shorts (the weather hasn’t been too kind during the whole month of February), the stranger must have been freezing. Irene couldn’t bear the thought of someone going hungry and cold, and not being able to do anything about it.

That’s why at the doorstep of Lisa’s apartment building, she excuses herself, money in hand and shrugging off her Burberry coat to offer it to the famished stranger.

Truly a heart of pure gold.

Jennie would have accompanied her, but her girlfriend’s _“I think I’m gonna throw up”_ has to be taken care of first. Waving her neighbor off to go on with her good deed, she spends a tedious thirty minutes tucking Lisa in (a fussy drunk whenever she’s told to go to bed), going back down immediately to meet Irene afterwards. Her neighbor informs her in a text message that the cab has moved to the next block, and that she’ll be in the car waiting for her. Jennie sends her a quick reply then slips her phone into her purse. She steps out onto the street, hearing an unknown woman calling out.

“Miss!”

Jennie startles at the approaching hooded stranger from the parallel street, her inner alarm bells ringing at the dangers of being approached at two in the morning. She recognizes the hoodie and shorts ensemble, realizing it’s the same person Irene has helped out earlier. She also recognizes the familiar Burberry coat on her arm, confirming that this undoubtedly is that poor homeless woman from the convenience store.

“Yes?” She asks, observing the stranger’s meek behavior of fiddling with her fingers. Will the woman be begging from her too? Jennie suddenly remembers an event years ago when her family had given donations to a struggling lady by a corner store, discovering weeks later that the ungrateful woman had auctioned off their donations to support her alcoholism.

The bitter memory urges Jennie to school her expression to her signature resting bitch face. She has nothing against being charitable towards the less fortunate, but she’s not some naïve, sheltered twenty-four year-old who could be taken advantage of. She wouldn’t have a repeat of her family’s foolishness.

“What?” Jennie asks curtly this time.

The stranger steps back with a flinch, her figure jumping to a better illuminated area underneath a streetlamp, revealing a mop of blonde hair beneath her hood.

Upon clearer inspection, this woman is seemingly harmless. Her bare face radiates this innocence, and her darkened eyes scream of exhaustion. That’s all it takes for the guilt to arise within Jennie’s conscience, admonishing herself for having these preconceived notions on a person’s motive. It may have been a bitter experience for her family, but it’s no excuse to not give someone the benefit of the doubt. Her hand instinctively reaches for the front pocket of her jeans to retrieve a wad of bills, and the stranger notices her movement, speaking quickly before Jennie could successfully fish out her money.

“No, no, no, no!” The stranger frantically flaps her palms to stop Jennie, who jerks at the flailing motions. She pauses uncomfortably, one hand moving to rub at the nape of her neck. She continues sheepishly, “There’s been a mistake. I’m, uh, not what your friend thinks I am.”

Jennie remains static. Her eyes roam on the blonde’s small frame from head to toe, taking in the ripped hoodie and shorts, and her generally disheveled overall look. Are homeless people in denial nowadays?

Glancing down at herself, a faint spread of pink stains the stranger’s cheeks. “About that… _this_ , rather. Sorry. I just,” she rambles on, “I was so hungry, jetlagged, and I wanted some food. All I have with me is cash but the store wouldn’t accept huge bills and my coins aren’t enough, then my luggage boarded the wrong plane so I don’t have clothes to change into for today, aside from my sister’s but she’s freakishly tall and her shirts are like hospital gowns on me which is why I’m dressed in _this,_ but my hoodie got caught on something sharp on the way out, explaining the tear, and you probably thought I was a bum with how I am, so um, I can’t blame anyone for thinking I’m uh…yeah.”

The blonde ends her breathless babbling, pressing her chapped lips together, while Jennie processes everything. Her brain analyzes the words one by one, fusing them to form a coherent thought.

Then, it clicks.

Her expression wavers. A grin forms on her lips. She has to bite back a laugh.

Poor stranger ( _not_ the financial definition of poor, the pitiful one for this scenario) has been simply craving for food at this ungodly hour. She must have felt awfully awkward, could _still_ be feeling awkward, at Irene’s so-called act of charity.

Maybe is even too nice to correct her on it.

“That’s…” Jennie falters, unable to come up with a suitable response to this. Where should she start? How does someone console another of being mistaken as a ravenous hobo? She hasn’t encountered a similar experience she could refer to as a basis. An apology could be a start? Yes, that would be the right thing to do. “I’ll be the one to apologize on behalf of my friend.”

“It’s, uh, it’s okay.”

Jennie fumbles with the studs of her Chanel bracelet and says, “Is there…can I help you with anything though?”

“Yeah, actually, it’s a favor.” The woman smiles shyly, almost in embarrassment. “About your friend.”

Ah.

Favors.

About her _friend._

Jennie has given a lot of favors to people, men and women alike, who have met Irene. She could predict where this “favor” of hers is going. Not a shocker there. She signals the blond to proceed with her predictable request anyway.

“If it’s not too much, I would like to ask—”

“For her number?”

“—for you to return this to her..?” the blonde finishes off confused. On her outstretched arms are Irene’s coat and a yellow bill that could only be a crisp 50,000 won. She pushes the items to Jennie. “Your friend is too kind. I can’t possibly take them.”

“Huh.” Jennie receives the coat and the money, staring dumbfoundedly at the stranger.

How…odd.

This woman definitely personifies the _strange_ in stranger. Did she not swoon at the mere sight of Irene? She could be straight, that would really make sense, but Jennie’s gaydar is off the charts with this one.

“Really was expecting for you to ask for her number,” the words are out of her mouth before she could keep her comments to herself. Jennie quickly follows it up with a recovery. “Sorry. It’s been a force of habit of mine to expect that from people who have met my friend.”

“You’d give a stranger your friend’s number?” The blonde explicably finds this concerning.

“I actually wouldn’t,” Jennie swears it because she wouldn’t have this person imply that she would be giving out Irene’s number to whoever asked. “Just expected for you to ask for it since, you know, my friend is, _you know._ ” She splays her hand vaguely in midair. Would that have been comprehensible?

Jennie sees the blonde’s reservations evaporate with a knowing smirk, understanding the implication of the brunette’s gestures. Her awkwardness has faded at this point. “Since your friend is…hot?”

Bingo.

Jennie musters a self-satisfied grin.

This stranger _is_ like everyone else.

Straight or not, no one would be immune to the beauty Irene has naturally embodied. Those who say they are, are just people in denial of seeing someone so out of this universe. Anyone with eyes would appreciate her fine sculpted face molded by God to the utmost perfection, the curves and hips that would drive people insane whenever she walks past them, with her captivating dark orbs mesmerizing anyone who dare to look at her straight in the eyes.

It’s crazy for someone to deny that.

“For a lack of a better word, yes, hot.” Jennie’s gaydar is really setting off, through the roof, but she doesn’t feed her curiosity. It would be an inappropriate question to ask a person you’ve just met.

“She does have the looks,” the woman murmurs. She takes a brief glimpse at the taxi on the other block where Irene currently awaits. She hums for a moment, mulling over her thoughts, “But honestly, she’s okay.”

Hold up.

Okay?

Did this woman just say she finds Irene… _okay?_

Jennie couldn’t fathom this woman’s perspective. She isn’t trying to prove anything here, although she has to admit that this is a baffling conversation for her, no doubt one she hasn’t had before. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, but _okay_ has to be the understatement of the century for someone as poised and as elegant as her neighbor. Straight people in Jennie’s circle have contradicted this stranger’s statement, stating how they might play for the same team if it’s for Irene.

So what’s so different about this woman?

“You’re really not interested in asking for her number?” Jennie asks once more. Just to be a hundred percent sure. There has to be some enlightenment for her gaydar’s constant pinging.

The woman scrunches her nose like she would prefer to be eaten by a pack of wolves than have Irene’s number. “That’s not necessary. I have to go grab my food at the convenience store so, um, thanks again.” She casts Jennie one last smile and shoves her hands into her hoodie’s pockets before treading to the convenient store.

Jennie is rooted on the pavement, terribly stunned.

“Huh.”

Not a typical Saturday after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only the prologue contains jennie's pov, the rest will alternate between wendy and irene.
> 
> thank you for reading ❤


	2. w e n d y

Jetlag is a pain.

It’s Wendy’s first day in Seoul, and her body clock is a mess, as she has foreseen it to be. The restlessness she has been exhibiting since the crack of dawn should have been a given. Even so, it does nothing to diminish her irritable state.

Not to mention that darned out of the blue craving she had at two in the morning after tumbling and turning in bed to no avail. Her hunger had overpowered her resistance, prompting her to roll out of bed in the groggiest mood. There could have been an easier solution to remedy her grumbling belly, say a short trek to the kitchen refrigerator where food _should_ have been. Maybe some leftovers from the excessive amount of takeout they had ordered for dinner. She had been reasonably expectant, but _nooo_ , it totally went over her head that her sister has the appetite of an overpopulated village on the verge of starvation.

How absolutely _great_ that was.

The apartment was wiped out, exhumed, from any signs of nourishment, forcing Wendy to brave the chilly streets at the dead of the night. Begrudgingly, she would add. The universe had to be having a blast pulling the nastiest tricks on her by snagging her favorite college hoodie—her _only_ piece of clothing as of the moment—at the door, tearing the fabric diagonally at the side.

Oh, how she wanted to scream and wake the entire apartment complex.

But what really puts the cherry on top of her way-past-midnight-snack escapade was her embarrassingly awkward encounter with that weirdly persistent woman.

Wendy couldn’t say she’s insulted though.

It wasn’t the woman’s fault Wendy’s luggage is happily vacationing at a detour in Japan. It wasn’t her fault Wendy spilled her drink all over her clothes at the airport in Toronto, so she had to change and be dressed in her sleepwear for the entire flight. It wasn’t her fault the convenience store wouldn’t accept her bills. It wasn’t her fault Wendy manifested homelessness so effortlessly that she made a _very_ convincing portrayal.

So she couldn’t exactly blame the woman, who heavily insisted that she take the money and coat Wendy seemed to desperately need from her viewpoint. It was an honest mistake, possibly fueled by the woman’s naivety judging from the Miumiu sequin dress she wore and the Givenchy clutch she held. She must have grown up in an affluent neighborhood along with her intimidating cat-eyed friend bathed in everything Chanel, unexposed to anyone who doesn’t sparkle in glitter and gold. In Wendy’s defense, people shouldn’t be quick to judge a book by its cover, including when said cover hasn’t showered nor slept in the last twenty-four hours.

Wendy sighs with longing. She can’t wait for her luggage to be home into her arms.

She yawns exhaustingly at the vibrant yellow light peeking through the curtains of the living room window in her soon-to-be apartment. It’s well into the day, the sun already rising, yet slumber has refused to crawl its way into her system. Her sister has taken the liberty of driving them to Gangnam, starting off today’s agenda by dropping off a couple of boxes and wrapping the furniture in plastic since her lease would be starting in the following month.

Wendy had initially pegged for the minor housework to douse her with drowsiness in the aftermath, however, all she’s feeling is her mind floating away, abandoning her body. Huffing in defeat, she flops herself onto a box containing her books and just sits there, shoulders slumped and her head in the clouds. She wonders when her body would decide to participate in becoming a member of society.

A clanking noise resounds throughout the apartment causing Wendy to jolt from her daze. She lazily cranes her neck to the source in the kitchen where her sister hastily scrambles for the fallen object. Wendy would have reprimanded her for nearly breaking something she hasn’t gotten to use herself, but her lack of sleep and her lack of emotional response to her environment lets Rosie off the hook.

That, and she hasn’t completely recovered from being mistaken as a bum either.

“Do I look homeless?” Wendy poses her million-dollar question. She couldn’t shake it off anymore. Her eyes resume to zero in on the blank living room wall in front of her.

The taller blonde pops her head up from the kitchen floor, forehead wrinkling at her question. She pushes her body up to stand by the kitchen counter, her eyes scanning around the partially furnished flat in a scrutinizing fashion. “Are you trying to rub your sweet ass apartment to my face?”

Wendy snorts.

It was a stroke of luck, she would have to admit. Hell, she might have sucked up all the luck in her lifetime to bag this unit. Her mother’s friend was the former tenant and referred the landlord to her upon hearing she was on the hunt for a place in Seoul. The rent price was such a steal for a one-bedroom apartment in Gangnam, of all places, with the additional perks of renting the vacant commercial space at the ground floor for her patisserie. It was as if the offer was made specifically for her. The amenities passed her checklist, making it a rare bargain to be seized at once.

She finally feels herself blinking, remembering Rosie’s presence in the room. Breaking away from her stupor, she says, “No, no, it’s uh, someone gave me their coat and bought me food when I went out earlier.”

Rosie looks at her appalled, like she has declined a billion’s worth of inheritance. “Why are you complaining about free food?”

“Because I could actually pay for it?” Wendy scowls at her in disapproval. Of course her sister would jump at any chance to obtain free food regardless of the situation. “I gave some of it to someone else on the street. As in, an _actual_ homeless.”

“An actual homeless?”

“Yeah, a legitimate no-house person.”

She was a hundred percent sure that the guy was homeless. At least, he said he was. How reliable are verbal assertions? He definitely looked the part, she reasons. Then again, she did too and isn’t nowhere near homeless nor broke. Oh, dear God. Had she been duped? Conned? Tricked into offering a free meal courtesy of 7-11? Her stomach lurches uncomfortably at the thought, her own generosity which had subsequently uplifted her spirits going in vain.

“Holy crap!”

The sisters turn to the tell-tale sound of the bathroom door opening. A tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair emerges, a satisfied smile painted on her doll-like features. Wendy’s mind whirrs for an identification, but she’s certain she hasn’t met her before. Or has her jetlagged brain redacted her recent memories? She couldn’t recall anyone else coming in her apartment. She was probably in her bedroom putting away more boxes when the woman arrived. Could she be a friend of Rosie’s? It’s a more acceptable probability than a lame burglar hiding in her bathroom.

“What took you so long?” Rosie asks, further confirming Wendy’s suspicions.

“Dude,” the brunette sighs out dreamily to Rosie, overlooking the shorter blonde’s small stature. She closes the bathroom door behind her and leans languidly against it. “I was in bathroom heaven! The Japanese toilet is a gift from the gods of—” she stops abruptly, and it dawns on her that another breathing, barely functioning vertebrate is within their company. She walks headed to the living room, locking eyes with Wendy in the seconds that tick by, both women continuing to stare at each other in curiosity. She darts her round doe-eyes for a few beats between Rosie and Wendy, ultimately settling on the latter. “Who’s this kid?”

Wendy grunts in vexation.

_First I’m homeless, and now I’m a kid?_

She could not believe how her day is turning out.

“My sister,” Rosie provides a matter-of-factly. The proper label would be _step-sister_ in technical terms, having the possibility of the two blondes being biologically related highly unlikely, taking into factor their major height difference. They don’t bother with the _“My mom married Rosie’s dad”_ story which has baffled several people into wondering out loud where Wendy’s growth spurt had gone. “She’s the owner of the Japanese toilet you just gushed about.”

The woman whips her head to Rosie. She knits her brows together in confusion. “I thought your sister is twenty-six.”

“She _is_ twenty-six.”

“You sure she isn’t sixteen?”

Wendy glowers at her. This is getting ridiculous. It’s true she may be lacking in the height department and she hasn’t wholly outgrown the baby fat on her round cheeks, but it would be too much for someone to mistake her for a child, right?

She speaks up, crossing her arms, “I am a grown adult.” She proclaims resolutely and rises from the box to prove her point, although it doesn’t help in justifying her claim with the short-haired brunette and Rosie towering over her. Their combined height makes her feel even shorter than usual.

A total pipsqueak.

“An overgrown mochi maybe,” the woman playfully coos at her. Those perfectly aligned teeth gleam in delight.

Wendy backs away within her hold before the woman could lay a hand on her. Something tells her that this person is quite touchy-feely with everyone, and it extends to people she has recently met. “I’m a working professional,” Wendy says in the most formal manner she could summon.

Her hunch becomes a reality as the tall smiling woman stretches out her arms, reaching for her. Wendy would have flinched under the usual circumstances. Anyone around strangers would have. In her jetlagged condition, her brain and movements do not coincide, allowing the woman to invade her personal bubble. With an objecting grumble, she has unwillingly surrendered herself to be manhandled like a limp pool noodle.

“You’re so tiny, I could fit you in my pocket!” The woman squeezes her little prisoner lightly. She has managed to lock Wendy into a back-hug, her arms barricading around Wendy’s stiff posture (who wouldn’t become stiff at a stranger embracing you all of a sudden), gently propping her chin on the crown of the shorter girl’s head. “Are we keeping her, Rosie?”

Rosie has been silently enjoying the scene unfold in her evil younger sister glory, feigning blindness and brushing off her sister’s pleading eyes. This could be her overdue revenge from the years Wendy has babied her during their childhood.

Left to her own devices, Wendy wiggles her head free from the woman’s chin and does so by some miracle. Unfortunately, those arms of hers remain intact around the blonde’s smaller body. She glares upwards at her captor. “I am not some kind of hamster.”

Wrong move. Wendy shouldn’t have said that.

Because her assailant’s eyes enlarge themselves, and she starts to prod at Wendy’s plump cheeks. “You do resemble a hamster! Look at them cheeks!

There could only be one person in Rosie’s list of friends be this affectionate.

“I’m guessing this is Lisa?” Wendy shoots Rosie an inquisitive eyebrow all the while swatting a prodding hand nearing her face. She earns a very entertained smile from her sister, verifying her guess to be correct.

“I would’ve introduced you two hours ago if it wasn’t for Lisa decorating our toilet with last night’s dinner.” Rosie’s smile vanishes, and she twists her face in disgust. “Which, I’m hoping isn’t the case for your toilet.”

“I just had a tinkle, no worries.” Lisa cranes her neck so she could be at Wendy’s eye level. She beams at her brightly, her toothy-grin nearly blinding. “We could’ve had our introductions at our apartment, but I had exiled myself in my room after knocking out.”

“Wendy said she was out at like two or three-ish. You two might’ve walked by each other at the hallway or something.”

“Dude, don’t ask me. I don’t know how I got home, but Jennie _always_ tucks me in. Did you see me or my girlfriend, tiny unnie?”

Wendy shakes her head. She doesn’t recount ever seeing Lisa or said girlfriend.

Up until today, she hasn’t gotten to put a face on Lisa’s name. Her inactivity on social media has made it impossible, and the sisters always had one-on-one talks while facetiming in private.

What she has heard from Rosie in their facetime sessions is that Lisa is her colleague slash roommate with a bottomless energy, the type who most likely swallows a triple A battery for breakfast—a feat Wendy can attest to. Despite studying the same major and attending the same university, they were only acquainted during their post-graduate internship at the hospital. Wendy finds it unbelievable as the two seem like they’re attached to the hip and have known each other for ages.

“Anyway, it’s nice to finally meet you!” Lisa peels her arms off of the shorter blonde and punctuates her greeting with a final pinch to the cheeks.

“Likewise,” Wendy courteously responds, massaging at the moderately sore patch of skin by her mouth. She doesn’t have it in her to be upset with Lisa’s over-the-top friendly welcome.

If Rosie hadn’t said anything indicating her roommate’s hangover, she would have missed it. Her complexion stays fair, her tone is chipper, and the portion below her deep brown eyes are devoid of bags unlike the dark rings encircling Wendy’s depressing raccoon eyes. She sees nothing but a hyperactive five year-old trapped in a model’s body. Lisa rummages around the kitchen, smoothing her hands all over the length of the countertop, caressing and tapping the material.

She would have to be restrained to be kept still.

Wendy then notices how the younger’s long gangly arms would be extremely advantageous at the kitchen, going from one place to another in a jiffy, that is. “Any chance you’re good at baking?”

Lisa sniffs by the sink. “I’m good at eating.” She becomes specially carried away by her reflection on the dishwasher.

Rosie interjects a more helpful information. “But her girlfriend is. Why?”

“Seulgi got me a charity even to bake for in two weeks at this Choi Sooyoung’s party.” Wendy has no clue as to what her client’s profile is, but is immensely grateful for the gig nonetheless. She will definitely be paying her best friend through a truckload of her favorite cupcakes in helping her kickstart her pastry business. On second thought, Seulgi did suffer a bad case of indigestion that one incident when she basically inhaled the birthday cake Wendy had baked for her. Overstuffing herself has been a signature Seulgi trait. Perhaps a light lemon cheesecake would do? Her best friend would gobble up whatever she bakes either way. “I don’t know who she is, but Seulgi said it would help introduce my stuff to potential customers.”

“Choi Sooyoung?” The glinting amazement swirling in Rosie’s eyes says she knows her client. This Choi Sooyoung must be some big-shot in Seoul to have her sister regard her in awe. “Ooh, rich people party. Nice strategy.”

“I can tell Jennie about it,” Lisa gleefully announces, ceasing her random scoping of the kitchen. Again, no trace of regret from drinking to her limit the previous night. She grabs her phone from her back pocket, and she types away on her screen, presumably texting her girlfriend. “She _loves_ to bake. I’m seeing her on Tuesday night. Give me the rest of the details and I can tell her about it.”

“That would be appreciated.” Wendy would take anyone in desperation. She may have years of experience in baking, but none in grandiose events. Half of her says she should recruit the roommates for the job, while half of her backtracks to the time Rosie called her in a panic about Lisa setting a bowl of cereal on fire. Wendy would rather not stress on that. And there’s a pleasant sensation in her gut that Lisa’s girlfriend will be appropriate as her apprentice. “Thanks, Lisa.”

“No problem, Little Chef,” Lisa pats Wendy on the head, glossing over the older woman’s frown at the Ratatouille reference.

***

The roommates tag along with Wendy to check on the on-going construction of her patisserie on the ground floor. It’s a Sunday, and Lisa says they really don’t have anything else better to do. Wendy apprehensively gives them permission, then regrets it as soon as the two wield a discarded metal pipe and reenact the fight between the Skywalker father and son, backed with lightsaber sound effects and Rosie’s impression of an Australian Darth Vader.

How are they in their twenties?

And how are they going to be in charge of the lives of living creatures?

Wendy has to yank them out of the shop.

They drive back to their place in Mapo-gu after a late lunch of a good ol’ Subway sandwich, and through some kind of witchcraft, Lisa’s energy drastically dwindles as her hangover relapses with the nausea piling in her esophagus ready to break free any minute. She’s babbling non-stop one second, and she’s running to the bathroom the next.

With Lisa retreating to the confines of her room, the sisters dive into some mindless chatter on the living room couch. Rosie animatedly regales about a cat-slapping terror at work, but Wendy’s short attention span due to her jetlag pries her gaze to something behind her sister. She assumes the wall-mounted frames are Rosie’s and Lisa’s Veterinary Sciences diplomas, because what else could they be? When she determines the words printed on them, she happens to be inaccurate, hunching over in visible bemusement. Instead, they actually are fake military diplomas honoring the _“services”_ of these _“brave men”_ namely, Sergeant McNuggets and Colonel Kimchi, the Golden Retriever and Siamese cat the roommates have adopted from their workplace.

This shouldn’t come as bizarre to Wendy. Being with them for hours told her enough about the quirkiness of their friendship.

Rosie reels her back into their conversation, seemingly pleased with herself at a particular revelation the older blonde isn’t able to catch. The taller woman repeats her words, smirk still present, asking if she liked the surprise from her sandwich.

Scratch that, she said _inside_ her sandwich.

A sandwich Wendy has finished almost thirty minutes ago.

She grimaces. “Oh my God, ew, Rosie! What the heck did you make me eat?!” She fires a pillow at her sister, the square cushion hitting her on the side of her head.

Rosie recoils from the impact. “Nothing gross, swear!”

“Then what did you put in there? I ate everything!” Her anxiety is building up at an incredible intensity. She has a meeting with her _very_ busy client tomorrow, and she can’t afford to be stuck on the porcelain throne nursing a terrible diarrhea. Rescheduling isn’t an option, just what would that say about her character as a businesswoman? Word of mouth gets around fast these days, it will surely ruin her reputation.

“Roseanne Park, what did you put in there?” Wendy repeats sternly.

Rosie’s lips flatten into a thin line. She plays with a loose thread on the fabric of the couch. “I sorta, kinda, might’ve inserted a piece of paper,” she says cautiously, “with Lee Jieun’s number.”

Wendy’s breathing hitches.

_Lee Jieun._

She has been dying to contact her for ages.

“Surprise..?” Rosie says uncertainly.

“So I may have digested Lee Jieun’s number?”

“You weren’t supposed to!”

“Obviously not!” Wendy’s tone goes at a higher pitch, clearly exasperated. She’s tired, cranky, and she’s missing her wardrobe. The one positive thing in her day could be ruined too. “Phone numbers aren’t normally found in sandwiches!” She exclaims.

“I meant, you weren’t supposed to because I taped it inside the wrapper, you silly moose.” Rosie nudges her on the thigh by the tip of her toe.

“It’s useless. I threw the wrapper before coming up here. Just send me her number.” Wendy locates her phone around the couch, the underlying impatience as she palms around for it showcasing her enthusiasm. She doesn’t want to appear desperate than she already is, masking it by turning her back from her sister. After finding it wedged between the cushions, she hands her phone to Rosie.

But Rosie doesn’t accept it, just stares at the device for about three seconds and glances everywhere around the room but Wendy. She does that forced thin smile of hers once more, like she does whenever she’s about to get into trouble. “Uh…”

Wendy deadpans at her sister. “Please tell me you saved her number.”

“So…funny story.” Rosie laughs nervously. The laugh itself isn’t an indicator of anything good. “My phone was dead when I saw her and she didn’t have hers so she wrote me her number on that paper,” she says in a rush, shrinking herself towards the opposite end of the couch, away from the unmoving shorter woman. “Wendy?”

Here’s the thing.

Lee Jieun isn’t a fan of social media, therefore other current modes of communication are out of the question. Unless she has miraculously had a change of heart, but if that were to be true, Wendy wouldn’t be aware of this. They haven’t spoken a single word in five years. Her last chance of reconnecting lies within that piece of paper.

There’s no other way to gain her contact.

“Oh no.”

Wendy bolts out from the apartment, whizzing past the hallways in a speed she hasn’t known she has had in her feet. It has to be the burst of adrenaline coursing in her body. She could still retrieve Jieun’s phone number from where she had thrown the Subway wrapper at a trash receptacle outside the convenience store she had been in. She doesn’t care about the digging she will be subjected to, as long as she will be able to collect it, her heart hammering against her ribcage at her running.

Physical activity isn’t her strongest suit.

She bursts through the glass double doors of the apartment building to be met with harsh rainfall drenching her in an instant. Life just keeps on sprinkling a series of unfortunate catastrophes in her day. She could get hypothermia—she could feel her bones jitter from the breeze—but she endures the cold rain and sprints like a deranged hobo down the street in her torn hoodie and Olaf house slippers, all in the name for a handwritten phone number. Wendy’s desperation has climbed to its peak.

As she reaches the trash receptacle, she immediately gets to business and scavenges for the wrapper. It’s mostly a bunch of paper bags, thank heavens, but she hasn’t found the distinct Subway logo on any of the wrappers yet. In the middle of her scavenger hunt, a familiar voice echoes in her eardrums.

“It’s you.”

Wendy halts, staying bent over the receptacle. The voice chills her body more than the rain itself.

“You’re the person from the convenience store.”

She removes her hands from the bin and cringes. Taking a faltering glimpse at whoever has caught her in a compromising situation (digging up for trash really takes it up a notch), her fears are realized. It’s the woman from the middle of the night, dressed to the nines in a black pantsuit and powder white overcoat, holding an umbrella over her head. She sends her the same compassionate gaze.

Didn’t her friend in Chanel explain to her the mistake? That might not be improbable as the woman begins to remove her coat.

“Not again.” Wendy groans miserably. She can’t spare another rundown on her situation with the rain seeping through her clothes. The trash would be soaked as well, and Lee Jieun would slip from her altogether. Why is this happening to her? “This isn’t what it—”

“Please, keep this.” The woman drapes her coat over Wendy’s shoulders. Her expensive smell infiltrates her nostrils, the scent practically a slap in the face to the blonde’s dirt-ass poor garb.

“Lady, hear me out. I was—”

“My apartment’s not too far. I insist. You need this more than I do.” She thrusts a wad of cash and the umbrella in Wendy’s grasp.

“But I—”

The woman has already bowed to her in goodbye, walking along the path of the street in triumph.

“I am _not_ poor!” She screams with her arms spread wide to regain the woman’s attention. But the rain increases its strength, drowning out her fruitless protest. The woman’s running figure disappears at the next corner, and Wendy is supplied with the objects she had persevered to return when she had persuaded her friend, restarting herself to square one. “I was just trying to get my sandwich…” She sighs to herself sullenly, and she spies a college student standing inside the convenience store gazing at her.

The girl stops halfway from eating a fishcake.

“It’s not what it looks like—”

Oh, who is she kidding.

The student exits the store, contributing to Wendy’s rain-stricken pity party. “Take it.” She stuffs the fishcake into Wendy’s hand that isn’t holding the umbrella and leaves.

Defeated in her personal war against this pseudo-homelessness, Wendy grumbles, “Goddamnit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the votes! i hope you guys do enjoy this story as i have in creating it :)


	3. i r e n e

Irene did not grow up in a privileged household.

Her family had been middle class at best, both of her parents working corporate jobs in order to support their daughters. While some may argue that she had been privileged in more ways than others, this was only because her parents worked themselves to the bone in providing them with a high-quality education. The tuition fee for a private school—an international school in particular—is no joke. Majority of her classmates had hailed from the upper class tier, their multiple homes, exotic family vacations and branded everyday items a wake-up call to Irene’s reality.

She and her sister didn’t always get what they wanted. Her parents established a reward system wherein exceptional grades were asked in return. Sometimes, their wishes would be fulfilled if their expenses left them with extra to spend on which was a once in a blue moon occurrence. And other times, they would be tight on their budget, prioritizing their necessities over the stylish new shoes the girls had yearned for. Irene would be behind her peers on the latest trends, but she had been appreciative of her parents’ efforts nonetheless.

What was important to her was she had clothes to wear, food on the table and a roof above her head.

So Irene learned the value of money, and just how difficult it is to earn for a living. She had guaranteed to her parents that she would not be taking everything they have done for her for granted. The hardships they had gone through weren’t a walk in the park. How much more for people who are struggling to survive in this economy? It led her to vow to help the less fortunate, however she can, even if it entailed handing two of her beloved Burberry coats to a poor shivering stranger.

And the deed was worth it.

Because in the five years Irene has been working, her generous paycheck is more than sufficient to sustain her needs. It’s high time she gives back. The woman’s helplessness had been a giant stab to her chest, her heart shattering into bits at the image of her worn out clothes in the freezing weather and the spare change in her hand. Irene just _had_ to do what she could. And seeing her for the second time by the convenience store must have been the Lord (she isn’t the most religious person out here, but the gist is there) showing her that their paths are meant to be intertwined, that she could somehow be an instrument in making this person’s situation less miserable.

Although the hesitance within the stranger couldn’t be clearer, Irene concluded the woman had felt undignified after being captured scouring for food in the trash. Anyone would have. Irene only wanted to be of help, but she would never be one to impose, so she opted with offering her coat, umbrella and a few bills again, in substitute for buying the woman the groceries she would have originally done.

Irene might have been partially soaked by the rain, but she trudged to her apartment with a victorious smile brightening her temperament.

But somehow, something about it didn’t sit right with her.

She just couldn’t pinpoint what it is.

“Are you thinking about what I said?” Jennie probes from the other side of the kitchen island. She sets aside the minced meat into a bowl before shifting her eyes on Irene, the diamond encrusted Chanel pendant resting on her chest twinkling as she moves to grab a vegetable.

This next-door neighbor of hers, on the other hand, has had a wealthy upbringing. It’s reflected through her luxurious boutique-like wardrobe, exquisite tastes, and the state-of-the art kitchen appliances shining in their expensive magnificence. Her apartment bears the typical one-bedroom layout, a shoe-rack by the door as you enter, and an open kitchen viewing the dining and living areas. The floor-to-ceiling glass doors and windows of the veranda serve to introduce natural light into the apartment. A small hallway by the living room comprises two doors, one leading to the toilet and bath, the other to the bedroom. For the laundry room, it’s adjoined by the storage near the kitchen.

What makes this apartment otherworldly from Irene’s is the place being remodeled from scratch to comply with Jennie’s preference. Irene has difficulty processing that they both live in the same building, the glamorous modern Art Deco style a sharp contrast to Irene’s modest home furnishing. The construction price for this kitchen alone probably cost a fortune, an amount that probably equals to Irene’s bank account.

Irene props her arms on the on the sleek granite countertop to observe Jennie’s exceptional culinary skills across her, the weaving of the cutlery submitting her into a trance. She replies without reciprocating the younger woman’s gaze, “No.”

“Why not?” Jennie would not let go of their abandoned topic freely. Her stubborn trait has gradually revealed itself in the year Irene has gotten to know her. She multi-tasks between chopping the carrots and regarding her older friend obtrusively, her cleanly shaped furrowed eyebrows refusing to relax.

“Because you’re making a big deal out of nothing.” A chopped carrot flies to Irene’s arm, and she toys with it in her fingertips.

Jennie opens her mouth to retort, but goes against it at the last second. “Lisa!”

“Yeah, boo?” Lisa answers from Jennie’s recliner in the living area. The tall woman angles her head at the kitchen and hits pause on the Netflix drama that she has been watching. She has been uncharacteristically quiet that Irene has forgotten about Jennie’s permanent guest in the apartment. Lisa is a chatterbox, unnerving Irene on their first meeting, but has since crept into her good graces after being accustomed to her talkative nature. Whatever drama had been playing must have been that binge-worthy to render her mute in the past hour.

“If you were a stranger,” Jennie says to her girlfriend, slowing her pace in wielding the knife. “What would you think of unnie?”

Irene blows an airy exhale. It has been days, and she would have thought Jennie would be exhausted in defending her case.

“Is this a test?” Lisa asks anxiously. “Whatever those Cosmopolitan articles you’ve been reading say, I am not cheating on you.”

“It’s not.” Jennie rolls her eyes.

Irene distractedly ponders at how many eyerolls has Jennie sent her girlfriend in the course of their relationship. She has been witnessing a handful of it ever since she’s had the pleasure of being friends with the two. It’s all good-natured teasing, a part of their back-and-forth couple’s banter, Irene knows that very well. She has to admit she wouldn’t mind if her future relationship were to be as easy-going and strong as theirs, with the ideal mix of maturity and fun.

But the ideal partner has yet to be found.

“Then why?” Lisa swings her long slender legs off the recliner and onto the floor. The silk black and pink pajamas say she’ll be sleeping over for tonight, backed by the furry feline Lisa has brought during her arrival and is temporarily imprisoned in Jennie’s bedroom at Irene’s horrified shrieking at Colonel Kimchi experimentally sniffing her foot. She walks sluggishly to the stool beside the oldest and hops up on it.

“Making a point,” Jennie says, really pulling out all the stops to prove her statement.

“Hmm.” Lisa strokes her chin thoughtfully, and juts out her lower lip. She rotates the stool to face Irene as she studies her. “I’d say she’s pretty, like _suuuper_ pretty. Someone I’d give a doubletake when passing by. Maybe even shoot my shot—” Jennie pauses her chopping and raises an eyebrow. “—in another life! C’mon, babe, put down that knife.” Lisa holds out her hands in front of her to shield herself.

Jennie merely chuckles at her girlfrien’s theatrics. She carries the chopping board over the pot of boiling water on the stove and pushes the vegetables down with her knife, then reverts to Irene like her girlfriend’s comment expounded on anything. “Get what I’m saying?”

The neighbors have been at a debate for the past three days, a debate Irene has half-heartedly indulged herself in to appease her friend. Jennie has discovered this “phenomenon” as she had exaggeratingly put it. There apparently seems to be a person reacting unusually peculiar towards Irene from their Saturday night-out. Irene can’t recall who she had been referring to because she doesn’t keep tabs on the strangers she’s met in their weekends. The younger woman would go on about how it’s the mystery of the century, the precise reasoning unregistered because Irene has blurred out her argument in favor of nodding along absentmindedly.

“She shot another bad boy down?” Lisa’s swift hand pounces for the bowl of minced meat at Jennie’s distraction.

Jennie, alert as a hunting animal, slaps her girlfriend’s hand before it’s in a reachable distance from the bowl possessing the goods. “Unnie _always_ shoots guys down. Good or bad. She’s a freakin’ machine gun.”

“Oh right, babe!” Lisa jumps in place and derails their topic, the seemingly never-ending debate postponed yet again to Irene’s relief from the momentary desertion of the subject, and to her annoyance from the from the anticipation of it being unearthed once more by some other time. “Rosie’s sister needs help in baking for a charity event. She has to train someone for a few days.”

Huh. So Rosie has a sister, that’s an information Irene isn’t aware of. The two have been acquainted, conversing shortly with the Australian native whenever she has to assist Jennie in hauling Lisa’s drunken butt to the young veterinary students’ apartment. She then backtracks to what Lisa had said. A certain detail piques her attention at the mention of a charity event. “Do you mean Choi Sooyoung’s charity event?”

“Uhuh.” Lisa confirms with a nod. “You guys handling it?”

“She’s the best friend of my bosses.” Irene had been assigned to the fundraiser a month back, liking her client’s cooperation. Choi Sooyoung is an elegant woman who, like her bosses, has launched a successful career. Her bubbly disposition and open-mindedness have made Irene’s job easier. “She’s close to Jennie’s boss too.”

“Jess can’t make it though.” Jennie inspects the broth with a ladle. The steam from the pot rises in swirls of indistinct patterns, filling the air in a tinge of warmth. “Also, my weekdays are swamped for this month. Sorry, boo. But I could lend a hand at the venue on the actual day if I won’t be hounded by my relatives.” Her attendance wouldn’t be work-related, that’s for sure, as she represents her family during the many functions Irene has spotted her in. Jennie had said she had been doing this since she turned eighteen. “Have you tried asking Joy? I’ve seen her go to the baking classes I’ve attended before.”

“I’ll give Joy a call.” Lisa is already dialing her colleague’s number. She continues to talk to them while her phone loudly beeps for Joy to pick up. “Isn’t it crazy how small Seoul is? Your bosses and Wendy’s client being best friends,” she muses to them, jumping from the stool afterwards to take her call to the veranda, sliding the glass door shut after her.

It could be coincidence or whatever. A metropolis with a population of nine million, and three of those people have their red strings of fate tied in front of Irene. Lisa could be onto something.

“Yeah, crazy.” Irene eventually agrees.

Seoul is small world indeed.

***

The homey single bedroom apartment welcomes Irene in a waft of lavender from the trusty diffuser she had purchased in her Shinsegae shopping spree. A rock-solid investment on her part. She loves coming home to be blanketed by the aroma, her nose tingling in satisfaction at the therapeutic aftereffect.

Her equipment and design of her place doesn’t compare to the extravagance of Jennie’s, but it’s hers, the flat and everything else paid with her own hard-earned money, an upgrade from the cramped studio apartment she had lived in after graduating college. She hasn’t made any reconstruction of the rooms, a practical decision than an option, settling for partially decorating the bare eggshell white walls in moderation. There’s an abstract painting her parents gifted her as a housewarming present at the dining area, bookcase at the conjoined living and office, and some miniature succulents atop wooden cantilever shelves flanking the edges of her flatscreen television.

Other than that, basic ice gray and purple furniture adorn the apartment. Irene adores every bit of the minimalist style of her place. Kicking off her shoes to the rack, she breathes in the air.

She is finally home.

At the conclusion from a long day of work and socializing, basking in the precious moments of peace by herself has become customary for her. She does love Jennie with all her heart (and maybe Lisa too by an extension), but Irene’s introverted personality requires her to recharge her drained social meter. Jennie has been briefed at the start of their accidental friendship (Jennie approached her at a salon both not realizing they have been living next to each other), and is incredibly understanding, never overstaying at Irene’s nor keeping her for an extended period at hers. One of the many reasons Irene treasures her younger friend.

She pads to the bathroom to change into a thick university tee and a pair of sweats to battle the cold, then does her nightly skincare routine, massaging her temples softly to relieve the muscles on her temples. The clock in her living room reads nine-thirty, an hour before her bedtime. With her body too listless to dive into bed, she lounges on an easy chair at the veranda. A friend from work who she hasn’t seen in weeks sends her a message, and Irene calls to check in on her. On the first ring, the other person accepts her call.

“I hope you’re not too attached to the island life,” Irene says into the receiver. She could make out the glistening deep blue of the Han River from her spot, the city lights and the moon’s yellowish luminance bouncing wobbly into the water. Residing in one of the taller buildings in Mapo-gu gives her the advantage of the beautiful scenery, in spite of not being directly across the river. She also has a glimpse of Rosie’s and Lisa’s building blocks away.

“I would never go back there if I could.” A female voice resounds from the speaker, a clashing of waves audible in the windy background. She’s somewhere situated by a shore. The chain of events at Jeju Island has kept the woman out of the office for days, and Irene has missed hearing her friend’s infectious laughter down the hall at work. Her bosses may be friendly and approachable, but she can’t be too chummy with her employer.

“Please do. I can’t handle all these crazy bridezillas by myself.”

“Wedding fever that high?”

“Had three of them during the afternoon. One wanted a Winter Wonderland theme for her ceremony and reception. In January. _Outdoors._ ” Irene emphasizes the final word, receiving a sympathetic groan from her friend. She’s glad Taeyeon and Tiffany pay her kindly to compensate for the horror she has to deal with in the form of crazy brides and at times, overly meddlesome mothers and mother-in-laws. Weddings must really bring out the ugly in people, highlighting how the other events she oversees rarely come with a client as ruthless as they are. “She’ll be vowing _‘til death do us part_ as she and her hubby freeze their buns in their last breath.”

“Yikes.” Irene could imagine her co-worker grimacing. “Guess I can already picture out what I’m going to be facing in three days. I asked Tae-unnie, and I’m taking two days off when I land if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You deserve a break. I could meet you for lunch on your second day.”

“I have plans.”

The cool post-winter breeze caresses her exposed skin, and Irene shivers slightly at the unwanted chill. “That’s okay.” A drop of rain pelts at her outstretched leg, propelling her to draw her knees to her chest. The incessant rain in the weeks that went by doesn’t appear to be stopping its showers over the city. She will have to retreat inside soon. “Who do you have plans with?”

There’s a prolonged gap of silence. “Someone.”

“Someone?”

“Yes.”

A second raindrop falls onto the stainless railing. The tiny splatter of water ricochets to Irene’s forehead. She wipes it with the back of her sweater paw. “You’re being sketchy.”

“I am not.”

“Then, who are you having lunch with?” Irene is acting a lot like Jennie, the probing no doubt taken from her neighbor’s influence. She couldn’t resist when her friend continuously beats around the bush. This interrogation would have ceased if the woman had given her straightforward answers.

“Just. Someone.”

Irene breathes through her nose. Clumps of grayish clouds have gathered in the sky, and the moon has hidden itself from the sheet of incoming rain. Thunder belts out a mighty roar in the atmosphere, and she winces at the monstrous noise. “Fine. It’s not like you’re seeing your ex.”

“Well…”

The droplets morph into heavier pelts, soaking the city in a harsh rainfall in matter of seconds and blocking Irene’s sense of hearing. She leaps from her seat to take shelter in the interior of the apartment, slamming the glass door closed hurriedly.

“Jieun,” Irene says in a motherly tone. She stands up straighter. “You’re not, are you?”

“She just came back from Canada. It’s been years.”

 _“And the damage has been done!”_ is what Irene would have yelled.

Reconciling with an ex shouldn’t have any rom for an argument. Irene wouldn’t have to think twice about deciding whether to permit a person who has broken her trust to reenter her life. The situation is a no-brainer. But why is Jieun seriously considering it? Irene has to talk her out of this preposterous meeting. “No. No way. Isn’t she your ex for a reason?”

“Yeah, but, people deserve a chance.”

“Not cheaters, Jieun.”

“You’re concerned. I get it. She and I aren’t getting back together if that’s what you’re afraid of. We’ll talk more when I fly back, alright? I have to go.”

Irene suspects she doesn’t really have to, but she doesn’t dissent. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you, unnie.”

***

Irene doesn’t see Jieun.

Not in those two weeks she had being preoccupied with the preparations for Choi Sooyoung’s fundraiser. It’s going to be attended by a bunch of high-class investors and revered guests so the event has to be as reputable as the host. Sooyoung didn’t have special instructions that required too much work. She’s actually the most levelheaded client they have ever had, simply requesting for a theme that would match the red and white her architecture firm’s logo bore. The brainstorming and approval of Irene’s proposal went without a hitch, but with her being in control, everything has to be _perfect_.

Meanwhile, Jieun had to travel to Yeosu for another event. She had spent a measly five days in Seoul, two of which she had confined herself into her home when she had suffered a mild flu, then flew on Monday. Their bosses and Irene had advised her to stay, their worries disregarded with a dismissive handwave. It’s a public event, and Jieun doesn’t want their brand to suffer with her nonattendance. She has to doublecheck everything to ensure nothing would be amiss. She would have to be out of reach from Irene for the week, which gives them no spare time to catch up.

Their reunion will have to wait.

The Frank Lloyd Wright inspired home of Architect Choi, Sooyoung’s late grandfather, boasts a wide section of open spaces, spreading an array of tempered cocktail tables with a ceramic red and white origami centerpiece. Attendees in their semi-formalwear roam the spacious floor, some huddled in a chat over a glass of chardonnay, others helping themselves to a batch of colorful pastries offered by the passing waiters.

Irene had been devoting her time of the entirety of the night in commandeering the staff. It’s her role to be able to uphold TNT Events’ slogan: _where your parties are guaranteed to be explosive and your guests will surely have a blast._ Pun intended. Tiffany, in a head-turning backless Tiffany blue (true to her name) mermaid gown, had to “fire” her for tonight so she could enjoy the rest of her evening and not waste the off-shoulder little black dress her older sister got her for Christmas. Irene reluctantly withdraws her earpiece to her boss.

“The main event is done. Loosen up, get drunk, eat a deliciously crafted French macaron. Live a little!” Tiffany shoves a drink in her hand then leaves her to greet her dashing husband.

Now that her work-mode has been switched off, the absence of her earpiece has attracted a few men to conspicuously meander their way to her. Irene searches for a diversion, somewhat hiding her distressed lip-biting habit behind her glass. Jennie has disappeared to speak to an aunt, and she has to search for someone to cling to fast, maybe Taeyeon or—

“Yeri? Kim Yerim?” Irene’s heels clack against the travertine flooring as she struts to a familiar face. Glancing at the men, they haven’t carried on with their advances. Thanks to her attentiveness, she has successfully stopped them from stressing her further.

Yeri dons a strapless crystal embellished mini dress which accentuates her maturity, and assesses Irene, her uneaten macaron in between her fingertips. If boredom could transform itself into a person, she would be fit to personify it. “What?”

“It’s me, Joohyun. Your babysitter, remember?”

Yeri munches on her macaron. She had been a preschooler in Irene’s babysitting days, growing under the older woman’s watchful eyes until the middle of her elementary school years. The recognition comes late. “Oh. Hey. ‘Sup.” Her dull eyes are wishing for this night to end.

“You’ve grown!” Irene has never felt this ancient. She would carry her in her arms then. The girl has surpassed her height by a couple of inches.

“It would be weird if I shrunk.”

“It’s been a while. You’re in, what, your last year of middle school now?”

Yeri pouts petulantly. “I’m twenty.”

Irene is about to profusely apologize, but a flash of pale blonde hair by the buffet triggers her memory. She’s skeptical about the person she sees, there are around a hundred of people at the party. Maybe it’s just someone random her mind thought it recognized. Maybe the stress is getting into her head. However, her eyes can’t seem to disengage from her creepy staring. The more she looks, the more the woman in a rose-colored Chanel dress (she’d seen the piece in Jennie’s fashion catalogue) tells her they have crossed paths in the past.

She takes a step backwards.

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Excuse me for a moment.” She pats Yeri on the forearm.

The sea of people part themselves at Irene’s determined brisk-walking, locking her eyes on the woman’s back. She tails her to the enclosed kitchen, where she has entered with another jet-black-haired woman in voluptuous red. Irene has balled her fists in fury, her anger going up in flames at the Jimmy Choo heels and the genuine diamond studs aligned from the blonde’s earlobes up to her helix. The doors nearly wham against the walls upon her entry. At her heels resonating in the kitchen, the two women turn to her, the blonde immediately sporting a deer-in-headlights expression.

Irene gasps.

“You’re not poor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the latest chapter posted on my aff account, which means updates will be irregular from now on. hopefully, the next one won't take long but i will try my hardest not to keep you guys waiting! thank you for all the kudos* (i had mistakenly typed out votes and i apologize for that) and comments, they are always appreciated :)


	4. w e n d y

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back y'all

“Some cheater you are, huh?”

Wendy almost chokes on an ice cube.

The cold solidified liquid lodges in her throat, but she manages to successfully cough it back out to her glass, the suds generated from the impact bubbling onto the dark surface of the carbonated beverage. For a moment there, the comedy that is her life has flashed before her eyes like a movie reel, and Wendy skims through her timeline that has gotten her to this point in her existence. An untimely demise due to frozen water would certainly add to her life’s comedic value.

But because she is human and has the built-in reflex to do the _opposite_ of dying, she has mustered all the strength in her body to remove the choking hazard from her mouth, hacking the ice out in a manner that’s comparable to a cat producing a gigantic hairball. She is instantly overcome with relief, and _sweet baby Jesus she could finally breathe!_

Wendy would have relished in being alive (living hasn’t felt this alleviating), but right when her vision stabilizes, the small group of wary onlookers around her and Joy have become vivid. She’s motionless, conceivably nonplussed, her cheeks peppering themselves in pink. As graceless as spitting an ice cube is at a formal event, Wendy concedes to the critical head-turns of the guests than to have Joy perform a Heimlich Maneuver on her. Her new life in Seoul has already gotten to a pathetic start, she doesn’t need for it to be _more pathetic._ Joy performing abdominal thrusts on Wendy wouldn’t be a dazzling sight for the evening, and it would make a lasting impression on her premature reputation, one that would haunt her on a sleepless night.

The choking seems to have humored Joy who has chuckled at the scene, unperturbed by what the older woman would label as a “near-death” experience. Sure, she could be overreacting, but an entire ice cube and her throat just don’t blend together. Wendy’s concerns are mitigated when the crowd doesn’t dwell on her choking fiasco for an extended period, regressing to their interrupted endeavors, while the blonde strains to recompose herself, backtracking to Joy’s comment that nearly sent her into a heaving fit.

“I, uh, what?” Wendy croaks. Her voice is rough, and she coughs into her closed fist to divert Joy from noticing her strange behavior. It must have worked because the tall raven-haired woman says nothing about it.

“The drink. I saw you. You switched it with a glass of cola when Miss Choi wasn’t looking.” Joy points out cheekily, proud of how she has apprehended the flushed blonde in her not-so sneaky tactic.

Wendy has to adjust her breathing evenly.

“Oh. Yeah. That.” She stammers nervously. Joy really doesn’t appear to be fazed by her or is pretending not to be for the older woman’s sake. Wendy then waves her hand dismissively. “Wine’s not my thing,” she says.

It’s a lie. A big fat lie. She would guzzle a gallon of merlot and a bottle of Rosé if she could. But with her name and the future of her business on the line, she couldn’t gamble the unpredictability of her alcohol tolerance for tonight.

Which in retrospect, has been a fine choice with the bundle of nerves thumping on her chest multiplying tenfold. She could be unbothered on the exterior but internally, the word “cheater” replays itself like a broken record stuck on repeat, submerging her mind into an endless pit of self-doubt. Wendy flits her eyes consciously as though any of the guests would be capable of reading her thoughts, amplifying her vulnerability.

_College Wendy._

_Twenty-one and dumb._

_Had fallen in love._

_But was stupid and a scum._

Wendy wrings her fingers around the neck of her glass steadily, the feel of the inanimate object tethering her to reality. Mind-reading is a superpower exclusive to movies and comic books, not in real life, she rationalizes. Had that been possible, there would be a handful of dirty looks sent to her for discreetly attempting to dislodge the beef wedged in between her rear teeth for thirty minutes (she had eaten it again after her tongue had poked it out).

Yet, none of her rationalizations could change the fact about her distasteful past. A troublesome past that is riddled with poor judgment and the abandonment of her common sense. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, the sensation lingering on her tongue. But she’s here five years later, doing her hardest to make amends for those mistakes.

That has to count for something.

However, this isn’t the appropriate time to perpend. Wendy is still at Choi Sooyoung’s party after all, her respected client. Recomposing herself, she wills the troubling thoughts aside, taken down from being lost in her own world as Joy stifles a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” Wendy dabs around her chin. Has she smudged her make-up? Rosie had applied waterproof foundation to safeguard her from the possibility. Wendy has to look up at Joy to gauge for the brunette’s response, her assistant for tonight just as long-legged as her younger sister. Rosie definitely gravitates towards people who make Wendy feel like she won’t ever be eligible to ride the rollercoasters at the amusement park.

“You’ve got boob stain on your dress.”

Wendy mars her lips into a frown, the downward curve of her mouth becoming a habitual action in the recent days. The sequences in her life really haven’t been a jolly stroll in the meadows lately. She instinctively runs a palm above her chest to examine it, and just as Joy has said it, she finds a dark blob dampening a portion of her dress.

“Lovely.” She glowers at it.

Did karma patiently wait for her homecoming before kicking her in the ass?

Joy tugs on her arm and lurches her from wallowing in self-pity, then ushers her to go to the kitchen to clean herself. There’s a queue of ladies lining up by the nearest toilet so the two women avoid the line, heading to the kitchen instead. Wendy tails behind Joy and her silky red dress draped around her slender proportions, its above-the-knee length accentuating her smooth toned legs.

The blonde couldn’t resist but commend on Joy’s well-maintained physique. She really should have taken those afternoon naps she had defiantly skipped during her developing years. Her mother should have imposed strict parenting on her too.

Once they get to the enclosed kitchen through the oak double-doors, the essence of freshly baked goods is still permeating in the air. It’s been three hours since Wendy and Joy had baked. The remnants of their handiwork and the last tray of macarons Wendy had dished out onto the kitchen island have since vanished, a satisfied smile replacing the frown on the blonde.

Choi Sooyoung did intervene her earlier to congratulate and thank her on the job well done, but Wendy hadn’t been persuaded even with the compliment from her client, so the sight of the spotless kitchen countertop is a key evidence to tonight’s success. Joy hands her a roll of tissue to dry the stain on her brand-new dress, and Wendy takes it with gratitude, the thought of people enjoying her food rectifying her sour mood.

But her boosted spirit rescinds in the blink of an eye at what would be the climax of her night, the kitchen doors swinging open to reveal a huffing woman bringing forth a breath of sophistication in her off-shoulder little black dress that matches her Christian Louboutin heels. Her eyes are burning in fervor, the raging fire saturating itself queasily onto Wendy’s flesh that the blonde could visualize the puff of smoke seeping out of the woman’s ears.

Wendy slackens her stance, back slouching and one eye twitching, at the forthcoming catastrophe this meeting is inevitably unveiling.

Welp. There goes the beautiful evening.

“You’re not poor!” The woman bellows.

Wendy sighs in resignation. “Ah, crap.”

“Um, what’s going on?” Joy side-eyes Wendy, pleading for answers with her upturned eyebrows. She grabs onto the shorter woman’s arm for protection. Concealing herself behind Wendy would be an ineffective ruse, the taller woman a mountain higher than the blonde. On the contrary, Joy could be using the shorter woman as a human shield or weapon to chuck at the stranger whenever this fuming brunette decides to lunge at them. It weirdly sounds like something Joy would do given that this is the closest Wendy has gotten to know her.

Wendy rubs on her nape. “It’s a _really_ long story.”

The impending headache gnaws at her skull, a numbing sensation scratching at the back of her eyelids. Wendy blinks once to exterminate the nausea but nothing happens. What if this isn’t even real? What if this is all a dream? She could be having one of those realistic and detailed nightmares where she goes about her day as usual until shit hits the fan.

_Please, oh please, let this be a nightmare._

But when Wendy subtly pinches herself on the wrist to be roused from the torment, her environment doesn’t shift. Her body doesn’t transcend from her version of dreamland. The walls don’t morph into the shade of Rosie’s bedroom where she has been sleeping, and the disappointment looms over her head with the woman still standing there, tangible and so _so_ real.

On the opposite end of the room, the brunette stranger is gesticulating at her in complete disbelief and is encompassing Wendy’s frame, resembling a defective robot on the border of self-destruction. She hasn’t quite decided on what to do with her feet, going back and forth just pacing randomly on the wide space between the kitchen island and the double-doors. Everything about her emits class, from the shiny black hair down, flawless porcelain skin, to her straight pointed nose. It’s her hysterical behavior that shatters her image. She stumbles over her speech, firing up incoherently.

“How—you’re—the trash—”

“Did she just say you’re the trash?” Joy murmurs to a frazzled Wendy.

The woman’s intermittent rambling goes on, sputtering through a million miles per hour. She throws up her hands wildly in midair, stopping her pace to look at the blonde in the eyes, and says the only sentence Wendy could precisely interpret. “I gave you my coat and money!”

“That I told you I didn’t need!” Wendy snappily reiterates, intentionally looking at Joy for good measure. It would be another train-wreck for the blonde to have someone else be surmised with the wrong idea, whatever misinterpretation could be drawn out from this. The tall woman beside her watches their argument, mouth moderately ajar, consequently muddled by the turn of events the night has descended upon them.

What kind of person has Wendy become in Joy’s perspective?

By now, people would have been swarming the kitchen to investigate the commotion, but the closed double-doors have muffled out the volume of their dispute.

“You could’ve been more specific as to why you didn’t need it.” The stranger stubbornly rebuts, her brows slamming together.

Wendy squeezes her eyes shut to calm herself as best as she could. “I’ve been telling you at the convenience store.” She runs her hands through her hair, aggravated by the woman’s unwillingness to admit her misconception. She then opens her eyes. “I am not poor!” Wendy states slowly, enunciating every syllable to have it eternally ingrained into this woman’s brain.

“B—but you were dressed—”

“Accident at the airport, changed my clothes into pajamas, had nothing else to wear for the day, luggage flew itself to Japan and ended up in Switzerland.” The issue of Wendy’s jet-setting luggage fuels her annoyance. It was an inconvenience she doesn’t want to relive.

“The trash—”

“Sister taped a phone number inside a Subway wrapper.” Context would be important for this tidbit, but Wendy casts it aside as unnecessary.

“I—I just, you weren’t.” The woman gesticulates again, aiming her vague motion at Wendy’s dress and heels.

Wendy gawks at her outfit. It is a drastic change from her everyday get-up. She may be a firm believer on the phrase _“looks aren’t everything”_ but with her first client coming from a well-renowned family of architects, the aberrant splurge on clothing had to be made. The high-class designer ensemble really isn’t her style either, only acquiring the outfit at Rosie being hell-bent on getting her to conform with Seoul’s It-crowd.

That has to be the woman’s mindset. Gucci, Prada, Chanel are what her eyes would have feasted on. Wendy’s unbranded clothing were detestable garments to be worn by peasants. This rich people perception of hers has got the blonde eyerolling. “Forgive me if I wasn’t presentable according to your standards.”

Wendy must have hit a nerve on the woman as she clenches her jaw. “What does _that_ even mean?”

“You’re a rich girl, hangs out with classy people in your classy clothes, living your classy lifestyle.”

The woman balls her hands into fists. “I am _far_ from a rich girl. Real judgmental.”

Wendy scoffs. “Look who’s talking.”

Her comeback smears the pressure off the woman’s face. Mortification dawns on her, the embarrassing mishap finally settling at the tip of her ears that are poking out from her hair. “I’m sorry for wanting to help, okay!”

The woman’s intentions had been pure, but the execution could have been handled better. Wendy had been judged by the state of her clothes and was indirectly accused of fraud. It’s understandable to feel offended in her predicament. “Right off the bat, after seeing how I was dressed, you made the assumption that I needed help?”

The double doors of the kitchen reopen, startling everybody at the abrupt noise. They snap their heads to the doorway at whoever has broken the tension enveloping the room.

“Irene, there you are!”

The woman, who Wendy assumes to be Irene the newly-arrived person is calling, looks over her shoulder.

“I’ve been trying to…” The newcomer trails off. She wears a blue Chanel tweed suit completed with Chanel accessories and a Chanel clutch tucked under her arm. But the trademark outfit isn’t the one that has sparked Wendy’s memory, it’s those distinct cat-like eyes raking the blonde’s frame. She smiles. “Oh, hello. Fancy seeing you here.” Her obliviousness to the heated discourse remains. She begins to acknowledge the tall brunette standing idly beside Wendy. “Hey, Joy. You guys are friends?”

“Uh.” Joy finds her voice after a stretch of being speechless. “You’ve already met Wendy?”

The human Chanel flashes her freshly manicured nails as she places a delicate hand over her chest and regards the blonde in marvel. “Wendy? As in Wendy Shon?” Wendy nods. How does this woman know her? “ _You’re_ Rosie’s sister? Seoul is such a small world!”

“Lisa was right,” Irene says cryptically to herself.

“Wait.” The gears in Wendy’s brain are turning. If Joy and Rosie are acquainted with this cat-person, and she’s friends with Irene, could these people be linked to her sister’s roommate? “Are you referring to Lalisa Manoban?”

Irene is intercepted by the cat-eyed woman. “Why, did my girlfriend do something stupid?”

_Girlfriend?_

Lisa has name-dropped her girlfriend at their apartment on more than one occasion. Wendy hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting said girlfriend. She sure hasn’t expected for her to be together with someone so fashionable. “And you’re Jennie Kim?”

Chanel girl flips her glossy hair elegantly, emulating a model in a shampoo commercial, and summons an enchanting smile that would have her dentist bragging. “The one and only.” Then, her smile falters slightly. “Really though, did she do something stupid?”

“No…” Wendy says. Lisa doing questionable things has to be a regular incidence with how resigned Jennie has sounded. “The coincidences are just…yeah.”

“Jennie.” Irene taps on her friend’s shoulder. “Have you met her before?”

Wendy’s mouth curls to a glower. “Hold on. Why haven’t you explained to her the misunderstanding?” It’s the question she has been meaning to ask. This disaster wouldn’t even be happening had Jennie relayed her explanation from that day.

“I did explain.” Jennie glances between Wendy and Irene. “She was in the passenger seat of the taxi when I got in. Although, she was dozing off while I told her. Guess she didn’t hear the rest.”

Irene stares at her feet. “I don’t think I’ve heard the beginning to begin with.”

“The coat and the money?” Wendy presses on.

“Yeah, about that…I forgot and left it in the cab. My bad.” Jennie purses her lips shyly. “I’ll get you one for your birthday,” she promises Irene. Jennie has to come from a ton of wealth because a Burberry coat isn’t the cheapest trivial clothing you could just buy for yourself, let alone for your friend. She backpedals to Wendy. “I _did_ mention to unnie about meeting you countless of times in the two weeks, that is, unless she’s tuned me out.”

“I didn’t peg for it to be essential information.” Irene confesses.

“And here we are.” Wendy grumbles.

“Okay, okay, okay.” They all avert their attention to Joy who has taken her precious time in digesting everything from her previously muted state. “To recap for everyone, Wendy is Rosie’s sister, whose roommate is Lisa, whose girlfriend is Jennie, whose next-door neighbor is Irene, who had a run-in with Wendy and _thought_ she was poor, who explained she isn’t to Jennie, who actually told Irene, who fell asleep at the explanation, then for the second time met Wendy, who explained _again_ she isn’t and has to explain the misunderstanding _once again_ to Irene that she, a self-employed Gangnam apartment owner, truly isn’t.” She addresses the aforementioned people with a cock of her head.

Jennie lays a hand on her hip and hums contentedly. “Pretty much.”

“Cool. Now if you’ll excuse us, ladies, I’m gonna go snag a drink for myself and this _poor_ friend of mine.” Joy declares as she moseys out of the kitchen, waving Jennie and Irene a hasty goodbye, and dragging Wendy along with her.

***

On Sunday, Wendy recounts the eventful evening to her sister. Lisa is touring a visiting friend around the city so Wendy is spared from one less person to listen in on the humiliation of being mistaken as a con-woman pretending to be a homeless bum. Jennie would wind up telling Lisa in person anyhow, having spied on the woman texting furiously with someone named _POOPOO_ , messaging her along the lines of _“some crazy shit just went down at the party babe lol ttyl”_ and how Rosie would be having a good laugh from Wendy’s story.

And Rosie does laugh, laughs to her heart’s content, disturbing Sergeant McNuggets from his doggy slumber while his feline counterpart is unbothered by the obnoxious cackling. She sweeps at the corner of her eye for a lone tear.

“What’s laughable is that you’re a trust-fund baby.”

“ _Was_ a trust-fund baby. And it was grandma’s money. Not mine.” Wendy reminds her.

A hunk of the money had been used when she dropped out of the program she had originally been in Seoul, and cashing it in when she returned to Canada to pursue culinary in the midst of her sophomore year. The monetary fallback had dodged her the bullet of crippling student debt. It was her maternal grandmother’s intention anyway to have it stored for educational purposes. She has secured the remaining amount left, reduced to a three-figure range in Canadian dollars, but she wouldn’t touch it unless special circumstances would warrant it.

Rosie cheers her up by divulging to her that _another_ surprise is on its merry way to the apartment. She has called the main lobby to buzz the delivery girl in to their floor, and Wendy becomes agitated, cursing at Rosie’s knack for wacky surprises. She prays to every god there is that it’s not some cop disguised as a stripper at the hallway’s side of the door, something her sister did after conniving with Wendy’s Canadian friends for her twenty-third birthday.

“Package for Wendy Shon!” The delivery girl announces, and Colonel Kimchi rolls over from her nap on the floor at the disturbance, which is odd since Rosie has been chortling like a maniac and the cat hasn’t stirred once.

Wendy could have ordered her sister to answer the door to save herself from another damned surprise, but the younger blonde’s unyielding insistence wins their sibling squabble. Rosie can be unforgivably relenting. Before leaving her seat, Wendy shoots one warning glare at her sister, then stalks to the entryway and pulls the door open.

“It’s me!”

Wendy yelps, blindsided by the person’s cheery disposition and the lopsided grin that has this woman’s eyes vanishing at the spread of her smile.

“I’m the package? You weren’t expecting an actual package, were you?” The woman asks with a moue of worry at Wendy’s countenance of being stiff and dumbstruck.

Sergeant McNuggets barks from the living room, his tail wagging ferociously in excitement. The barking catapults Wendy from her staring to processing the woman’s refined figure in a semi-formal attire, cloaked in white petticoat, pastel-colored blouse and white trousers. It takes the blonde approximately three more barks from the Sergeant for the realization to sink in, inciting a stupefied gasp from her parted lips.

“Seulgi!” Wendy tackles her best friend into a bearhug as Seulgi squeals at her belated reaction. The five years she hasn’t seen Seulgi has felt like an eternity without her loveable dorkiness. Being countries apart has been pure torture, missing those impromptu sleepovers and late-night chitchats. But most of all, Wendy misses the warmth induced by the comforting embrace from her best friend. “You said the international conference wouldn’t be over until the next weekend.”

“I lied.”

Wendy pulls back, evidently miffed. Seulgi has the worst self-control in the field of deception. “But you’re a horrible liar!”

“Which is why we told her to go under the radar and to block your number.” Rosie steps into the threshold to demand a hug from Seulgi who readily complies. Colonel Kimchi excitedly meows at their guest. The cat slithers its body around Seulgi’s leg, and her waking up has to be her senses recognizing Seulgi’s voice.

“Unblocking you as we speak.” Seulgi says to Wendy assuredly, disentangling herself from Rosie. She tinkers with her phone before scooping the feline into her arms.

The two best friends huddle on the couch, filling each other in on the overdue updates on their respective lives. They have facetimed often throughout the five years, but being physically present and to be able to share these happenings with someone concrete is a lot different. Seulgi’s veterinary profession is in motion, working at the animal hospital where Lisa and Rosie are conducting their internship. She’s praised as one of the leading doctors in the industry, and Wendy’s heart swells with pride at the vet’s accomplishments.

As Seulgi plies on the conference in Florida, she strokes Colonel Kimchi’s fur, the tabby feline rumbling with a pleased purr. Lisa’s furbaby is skittish around unfamiliar people, and witnessing the Colonel resting in content on Seulgi’s lap is a testament to her recurring presence at the roommate’s apartment. Since Sergeant McNuggets’ master has retired to her bedroom to do some readings, he snuggles against Wendy’s side of the couch. Wisps of gold have stuck to her black leggings, but Wendy has developed a liking towards the Golden Retriever so she doesn’t subject him to the floor.

“So, how was your lunch with Jieun?” Seulgi cautiously asks. She doesn’t ordinarily steer their conversations onto the topic of Jieun unless Wendy does it first. It might have to do with the eagerness Wendy expressed during their phone call after she contacted Jieun a week ago.

“Didn’t happen. She caught the flu then had to fly to Yeosu as soon as she got better,” Wendy says, concealing her dismay of Jieun not calling her days later. She could tell Seulgi is biting the inside of her cheek, a mannerism to restrain herself from saying something that could escalate their conversation into a full-blown argument. And Wendy would hate for them to reunite on a bitter start.

Thankfully, Seulgi clams up, keeps her mouth shut and moves forward from the topic of Lee Jieun.

***

A week after the fundraiser, Wendy’s pastry shop is in its soft opening. It has been a trial to juggle her managerial duties and baking duties in one go, doing everything by herself for the meantime without the assistance of a staff. She would have waiting until she’s hired the qualified people (she’s scrupulously reviewing the individuals who have applied), but she couldn’t stall her business any longer.

Her bills wouldn’t be paying by themselves.

The patisserie has had a fair number of customers. Wendy knows being a new store nestled in the heart of Gangnam would be a challenge against the frequented and famous outlets. Her apartment building is erected on a corner lot, and her shop’s storefront sadly has the disadvantage of facing the small alleyway while the other commercial establishment gets the main road, so only pedestrians passing the winding alley have come across her patisserie. But in her days of assessment, even those pedestrians are contemplative towards entering unknown shops.

It’s day three into her opening, and the store is empty at four-thirty in the afternoon, save for the occasional worker coming in for a take-out on their journey home. Wendy has left her station at the register, sitting on one of the chairs and drumming her fingers on the table. She deliberates on closing the shop early as her gaze flits beyond the glass walls, out to the street, on to a child—a pre-schooler, she assumes—wandering by herself with no guardian in tow.

Wendy jumps up. Any concerned citizen wouldn’t permit such a young kid to wander off by themselves in a city as busy as Seoul. She zips out of the store before the kid could skip past the door of her shop. The little girl stops walking at Wendy’s intervention, squinting her little eyes at the blonde.

“Hi.” Wendy crouches down to be on the child’s level. She surveys the street for anyone who could be on the lookout for her. There are people passing through the alley, most of whom are of Wendy’s age, but none of them externalizes a worried parent on the hunt for their daughter. “Are you lost? Do you know where your mommy is?”

The child shakes her head. She swivels her body around, and Wendy is confronted with the girl’s yellow Teletubby backpack. The blonde couldn’t fathom the purpose of the kid bumping her bag toward Wendy’s arm, but she sees a tag hooked onto the zipper of the bag bearing the contact number of a woman named Ahn Hyejin.

Wendy dials the number on her phone. A few beats of the dial tone ringing, nobody picks up her call so she sends a text instead. “It’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself. Wanna go inside while we wait for your mommy?”

The child nods timidly. Her arm springs at the invitation to cling onto Wendy’s hand. She must have been terrified from strolling the streets alone and was waiting for someone to notice her.

Wendy guides the both of them inside and perches her onto the chair at the very table the blonde had unoccupied. The kid sags against the backrest of her seat then sways her legs over the edge of her chair. The thick lashes framing the perimeter of her eyelids flutter at her curious scanning of the patisserie. Her former dread dissolves, replaced by an irresistibly cute smile that her rescuer mirrors.

“My name is Wendy. What’s your name?” Wendy sits on a chair across from her, leaning onto the table to maintain eye-contact.

“Sia.” The little girl twiddles with the belt looped around her red overcoat, and she shows off her baby teeth as she gargles, extending her little arm to poke Wendy on the nose. The touch would have been disliked on an average day, but the sugary laughter it enlivens from the girl disarms Wendy. She isn’t a fan of children, but this one here could be an exemption.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she slides the notification bar to see a message from Hyejin. The several typos in the text signify the mother’s heightened panic. What mother wouldn’t be quivering at the disappearance of their child?

“Okay, Sia,” Wendy says. “Your mommy just texted me she’s on her way.”

“What’s that?” Sia directs her tiny finger to the transparent circular container housing a colorful arrangement of macarons beside the cash register.

Wendy peeps at the varying shades appealing to school children of Sia’s age. She could advertise her products at the nearby kindergarten if Sia’s school isn’t too far. She takes the container to their table and passes the little girl a plate holding a piece, a strawberry-flavored one to compliment her outfit. “This is a macaron. Try some.”

Sia receives it tentatively. The confection is wrapped in tissue, for sanitary purposes, and she peruses the pink treat with a child-like fascination. Eyeing up at Wendy, she gingerly chomps on the macaron.

“How is it?” Wendy asks.

“Yummy!” Sia mouths at her mid-chew, puffing out her adorable inflated cheeks. A child’s brutally honest comment is more than the validation Wendy could ask for. The blonde restocks her plate with three more macarons in different flavors, cueing Sia to clap in rejoice.

“Sia?” A frantic woman barges in the store, her short black hair tussled and her red coat askew. The shakiness of her grasp on the door-handle couldn’t be missed. She releases a breathy exhale at the little girl snacking on the macarons and rushes to her. “Sia! Don’t you run away like that again. You scared me.” She kisses her daughter on the temple.

Wendy couldn’t refrain from smiling endearingly at the mother-daughter duo in matching red coats. Sia is chewing on her third macaron, blissfully unaware of the heart attack she has inflicted on her mother.

“I’m Ahn Hyejin, as you already know from reading the tag on her bag. Thank you so much.” Hyejin says earnestly to Wendy.

“I had to take her in. How did she run away?” Wendy lets Hyejin grab a seat next to her daughter.

“Snuck out from her kindergarten when a group of kids were fetched by their parents. I have no words for how thankful I am. She gets antsy when she’s the only one left at school. I’m a single mom so I’m out and about until five to six on most days.” Hyejin’s voice is dribbled with contrition.

A flashback of Wendy’s childhood flickers in her mind. She may have been fortunate to be born in a well-to-do family, but her mother had reared Wendy’s first nine years as a single mother. Wendy remembers those agonizing afternoons of being the last kid standing when her babysitter would be unavailable to fetch her. The paranoia of being orphaned was palpable that her teachers would sing to her to ease her despair. She had pined for normalcy the other kids were entitled to, hankering after the felicific greeting of a parent at the corridor.

It made Wendy abhor the dedication her mother exerted into her job.

“She’ll understand when she’s older.” Because Wendy does, now that she’s earning for herself. She understands that child-rearing and working full-time would entail sacrifices. And her mother did what she could. “Trust me. My mom was just like you.”

Hyejin’s eyes have become glossy at the assurance. “Thank you.” She frets over Sia’s pigtails to prevent the waterworks from running. The little girl has sensed her mother’s melancholy, presenting a late of blueberry macaron for her to eat. Sia readies to feed the woman as Hyejin dusts off the crumbs around her daughter’s mouth. Pausing to study the half-empty container on the table, she glances at Wendy. “Did you give these to her? Sia’s a very picky eater and wouldn’t eat anything she hasn’t tried before. These must be delicious.”

Sia nudges her mother with the plate. Hyejin is apprehensive to take it, studying the container again.

Wendy sees through the apprehension. “Please. It’s on the house.” She urges the woman. It’s a loss from her profit, the macarons being the best-sellers of the patisserie, but Wendy’s generosity gets the best of her.

At Hyejin’s first bite of the macaron, a flurry of emotions conquers her features. Her eyes broaden in delight, swallowing the rest of the confection at her second bite. “This is amazing! Do you do big events?”

“I opened just recently so I’m still understaffed. I did a charity event during the weekend, and I’ll be honest with you, baking for huge events can be draining with me as the only pastry chef. I’m currently screening.”

“I’m interested,” Hyejin says. She delves for something in her purse, plucking out her wallet, then hands a business card to the blonde. “You think you could have your staff sorted in five months?”

“Five months? That’s more than enough for me to prepare!” Wendy shares her eagerness to accept the gig. She finally reads what’s printed on the business card, and when she discovers the true identity of this woman, she feels light on her feet, her body ascending to cloud nine.

Hyejin exclaims, clasping her hands together. “Great! It’s going to be Sia’s fifth birthday in six months. There’s a one-month window for you do other necessary preparations.” She caresses her daughter’s cheek and plants a kiss on her forehead. “Would you like that, sweetie? Miss—”

“Seung—Wendy. Wendy Shon.” Wendy almost fails to recall her own name.

“Miss Wendy will be baking you goodies for your birthday.” Sia nods vehemently at the prospect of more treats from the blonde, her pigtails bouncing at the movement of her head.

“And I’d also like to add something else.” Hyejin picks at the sparkling straps of her Rolex. “I’ll be paying you extra for this, don’t worry.”

_Extra? Sign her up!_

“Oh, sure, what is it?”

“Work has been hectic lately, and with devoting my weekends to Sia, I don’t have the time to scout for the events planner. Since you’ll have to coordinate with the theme they’ll be implementing, I’m entrusting you in choosing the best planner there is. A friend has already recommended one, and they’re interested in setting a meeting soon, but if you’re willing, I’ll be giving them your contact as my official representative. And if you stumble on another events planner, you’re free to seek them out. We’ve talked about the theme that Sia wants, and she’s been begging for a circus themed party. It may sound weird from someone you just met, but I trust you on this. Will you be up for it?”

Will she be up for it? Getting paid to cater for a children’s party _and_ to attend consultations every now and then? Who in the right mind wouldn’t? Wendy doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely!”

The day comes to a close with Wendy booking a new client, a side-hustle, and the loyalty of a kindergartner who pledges to visit Wendy’s patisserie everyday after school. She thinks her luck has finally turned over a new leaf. That luck must be doing wonders, working its magic overnight, because the minute she slips underneath the blankets of Rosie’s bed, her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She checks on the message, half-expecting it to be from Seulgi, but the text flushes down her drowsiness as the blaring green bubble pierces through her skull.

**Jieun**

Hi. Do you still want to meet up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i really do apologize for taking 2 freakin months to update. my quarantine brain was having a hard time coming up with words that it would take me a whole day to be able to write a single paragraph. but now this part's finished, even with the rusty ending of this chapter (i'll be editing some bits later). anyway, irene and wendy's "proper" meeting finally happened, what can you say about it?
> 
> to those who don't know, lee jieun and ahn hyejin are IU's and Hwasa's birthnames 
> 
> hoping for everyone to be safe and healthy x


	5. i r e n e

The theory of reincarnation seems like a grand idea. You could restart your life’s journey, make a total redo in a separate body, and have a whole new, unscathed set of identity. It’s the perfect clean slate for someone ensnared by their desperation of a do-over. But then there’s the part of having to die in order for the theory to be tested.

That requirement kinda spoils the idea for Irene.

Her options haven’t run dry. There are other methods of going off the grid at the soonest date manageable. She could book a one-way ticket to a foreign land, maybe to the country of Peru where she’ll have to overcome her fear of animals so she could have herself be educated in raising a herd of alpacas as she settles into a simpler life of animal husbandry at the hills of Machu Pichu.

It’s tempting. She doesn’t have to die. Her shameful encounter would be a thing in the past. This option captivates her more than the first. The plan is virtually fool-proof, just the notion of being with fluffy non-human creatures day and night repels her from the course of action. Animals will always be a frightening obstacle to her. She wouldn’t withstand having her life revolve around it.

Irene has to say whopping _no, thank you_ to that. Furthermore, it would be mandatory for her to learn their dialect. She’s had her clashes with foreign languages (English, Japanese and Chinese) in high school, but her desire to be fluent in a fourth one isn’t in the cards. She could probably get by with her English in Peru regardless. Still, alpaca-grazing gives her the heebie-jeebies. She shudders at the visual.

Sighing, the office chair swivels at the thrust of her leg. Her surroundings spin, speckles of white, mint-green and wooden undertones blurring at her field of vision. This is what her load of laundry has to be experiencing during their designated wash days, spun accordingly to the washing machine’s orders without their consent. Not that laundry would require consent. Inanimate objects aren’t supposed to feel anything nor have the rights to protest, but Irene is no inanimate object, and the prolonged embarrassment oozes in every fiber of her being as her dignity is thrashed around in the rinse cycle of life.

How is she going to live it down?

Her motion sickness arises at the continued swiveling of the office chair, and she slams her foot hard on the floor. That was boneheaded of her. Nausea ripples within her belly, but she gulps the lump before it’s set free.

_When have you become such a dumbass, Irene?_

She grumbles into her palms as she buries her head in her hands and stews over her flawed presumption.

It wasn’t fun being enlightened about Wendy’s background, though her neighbor had been repressing her amusement on Irene’s account. The blonde pastry chef isn’t up to par with Jennie’s wealth, but growing up in Canada and owning an apartment unit in Gangnam are booming signs of her financial stability. Irene has used the days afterward to salvage whatever self-esteem she currently has.

Her co-workers would have regarded her with an apprehensible degree of concern at her eccentric conduct. Irene is noteworthy for her cool and collected nature, her composure seldom bent, and this present Irene is a far cry from the person in their conception. But in some twisted sort of timing, the memory of last weekend’s chaos only interposes whenever she’s alone, particularly during her lunch breaks. Everyone has abandoned their stations to dine somewhere else, whereas Irene has declined the invite to leave without her doted office buddy.

Perpendicular to her desk, Jieun’s cluttered belongings of paperclips, markers and post-it notes are untouched. Irene tips her head to one side against her shoulder. She has been missing her friend dearly. Jieun had flown, once more, to Busan over the weekend for a local four-day university music festival. The woman’s versatility enables her to adapt in any environment, a feat suitable for out of town projects. Jieun’s return-flight to Seoul was almost sixteen hours ago, but Irene hasn’t gotten a text or voice message about filing for a day off, something Jieun routinely does.

Irene’s inner contemplation breaches to a standstill when a co-worker informs her that she is requested in Tiffany’s office. She snappily leaps from her seat, avid to drown herself in work than have her brain spiraling again. She marches along the aisle dividing their desks and heads for the transparent room at the back of their open work area, where a secretary, who usually notifies the arrival to their bosses before letting anyone in the conjoined office, isn’t to be found. But the door to Tiffany’s office is cracked open, and Irene could decipher her boss and a familiar visitor talking in mid-sentence. The sheet of frosted glass obscures her from ever seeing the figures beyond the partition, so she peeks her head inside for a glimpse.

“—uh, wife.”

“Whose wife?”

“His wife.”

“He has a wife?”

“He has a wife!”

Figuring she should make herself be known someway, Irene knocks on the frosted glass door thrice, efficiently obtaining the two women’s attention. “Should I come back or..?”

Jessica Jung gets up from her seat before Irene could retract her head from the room. Her leopard-print scarlet red slim-fit blazer and trousers are a divine piece Irene couldn’t rip her eyes from. Nothing short of perfection for a woman of her caliber. She flings her straightened hair with a brush of her hand, grinning impishly. “Don’t mind me, I was stalling Tiffany from checking into Henry’s shopping history to snoop on his anniversary present for her.”

Tiffany tuts at her best friend for foiling her plans. In her white Alexander McQueen pantsuit, the childish scowl is a major contradiction. “Don’t you have a boutique and magazine to tend to?”

“Jennie, my brilliant superstar is doing her absolute finest. Since your champion has arrived, I’ll go mess with Tae-Tae.” Jessica’s Cheshire grin extends to magnify her mischief, beckoning the hesitant brunette by the door to the chair the fashionista had risen from.

Irene would have refused to be an intrusion between the two friends, but with Jessica’s intimidating aura infiltrating the atmosphere, her survival instincts dictate her to do as she is instructed, obediently claiming the upholstered chair placed diagonally against the front of her boss’ glass table.

“We have jobs, Jess!” Tiffany hollers, but Jessica has sauntered towards Taeyeon’s more private connecting office, greeting her other best friend with an upbeat “Tae-Tae!” and sliding the pocket door at the annoyed groan flooding from Tiffany’s business partner.

It’s interesting how these two polar opposites have become a pinnacle in catering to South Korea’s social scene. The baby pink and chocolate brown scheme of Tiffany’s office gives a brighter and light vibe, while the indigo and asphalt gray combination in Taeyeon’s has a more serious and getting-down-to-business tone. If those aren’t dead-on representations of their personalities, then the photographs on the shelves behind their glass tables should be able to convey a story.

Taeyeon’s black and white photographs are landscapes and monuments of places she’s visited, highlighting her love for travel and her jet-setting lifestyle.

As for Tiffany, there are a stream of people in various photographs. Some of her family, her husband, her friends, her colleagues, celebrities she’s met, and a couple of her dogs, all of which are in full color. The biggest photograph settled on the third shelf is of her and Taeyeon in a tiny box of an office with their secondhand furniture and hopeful smiles at the launching of TNT Events a decade ago, an illustration on their humble beginnings of a two-person workforce. Tiffany and Taeyeon may have had well-to-do parents to support their finances and hire the best team, but they built their company from the ground up, learning the basics of events planning and taking online course for videography, photography and editing softwares themselves.

Four frames over is a photograph of Tiffany and Choi Sooyoung in their military green and plum trench coats, and Irene’s trips to Jennie’s closet has her identifying the iconic bran without second-guessing herself. The iconic bran of the very two coats she’s offered out of “generosity”.

Tiffany’s spectacled face comes into her view. “Why so glum, almost-birthday girl? Twenty-eight isn’t a bad age.” The testimony is coming from someone who has strutted into her thirties in splendor and grace. She twirls a pen around her fingers, pink nail polish gracing her fingernails.

“It’s nothing.” Irene channels the professional smile she has mastered for worrisome clients. Her thought-consuming embarrassment shouldn’t be affecting her work life. “Amber said you have an assignment for me, sunbae?”

Tiffany lowers her pen on her table with a _thwack_. “How many times do I have to say this? You can drop the honorifics, Irene. Besides, I already graduated when you started high school in SM International.”

It wasn’t premeditated. There was a flyer on Irene’s department’s announcement board about a paid part-time job at a company she hadn’t been familiar with. The hours indicated on the flyer wouldn’t disrupt her classes, and it would be a bonus to her credentials. She hadn’t envisioned that she and the CEO and COO would have a common alma-mater, a similarity Tiffany had been gushing on and on in between the appraisals of Irene’s accomplishments.

Her parents’ foresight of their futures was remarkable. Irene didn’t grapple the necessity for her and her sister to attend a pricey private school when there were decent public schools in the city. She didn’t possess the affluent backgrounds her classmates in high school did, but she was able to make connections, including those she hadn’t met. Tiffany had taken her under her wing as her former assistant, saw the growth of the company, and was employed as a regular after gaining her diploma. No matter the angle, her resume did around seventy percent in endorsing herself. The other thirty was her glitzy secondary and tertiary education. Connections _do_ get you to places.

Nonetheless, Irene has been proving to her bosses that hiring her wasn’t waste.

“Back to business.” Tiffany’s wedding band glimmers as she threads through the pages of her unsurprisingly pink binder. “Ever heard of Ahn Hyejin?”

“The epitome of a strong independent woman?” How could she not? Ahn Hyejin is a household name in the design profession nowadays, her ventures plastered on news articles, the history of her patents being rejected by multiple firms which paved her to research and study diligently on environmentally and economically friendly materials. Stars and socialites have been posting her works on Instagram for their unique concepts and market value. Outstanding for someone in the profession under three years. What really struck the hearts of the masses was her hands-on solo parenting of a four year-old she had at nineteen. “Who hasn’t?”

“Much respect for a fellow lady-boss. Speaking of her, we may have a chance to manage an event for her daughter’s birthday.” Tiffany says enthusiastically. “You’re going to be assigned to grab that chance.”

The energy her boss radiates is so contagious that it has Irene nodding repetitively like a trained dolphin exhibiting its tricks at Sea World. She has done a myriad of birthday parties. What difference would this one make? “You can count on me.”

“I _will_ be counting on you, Irene. This is an important project. Our company’s name has suffered a significant deal from that horrendous mess last year.” A wave of seriousness resides in Tiffany’s cloudy eyes.

No one would have anticipated for a videographer to become obsessed with an engaged client at a pictorial, later on sabotaging their wedding by messing up their bouquet orders, exchanging the doves for dead pigeons and during the newlyweds’ first dance, a video of the groom making out with his best man played on the screen. The bride, expectedly, called off their union, and the groom’s parents were enraged that they paid everything for nothing since the matrimony was of two _chaebol_ heirs. A scandal wasn’t in their agenda.

“The debauchery of the century” tabloids would say in big bold letters. The title is a bit of an overstatement in Irene’s opinion, but some writers would do anything to milk a story into something headline-worthy. Because of the videographer’s involvement, the groom’s influential family had bad-mouthed TNT Events for the irresponsible supervision of their employee. And with their power, Tiffany and Taeyeon had to rebuild their clientele for three months.

“Getting this will bury the hatchet.” Tiffany proclaims with optimism. “We can go back to having clients for concerts, award shows and celebrity events. My source tells me we’re competing against this newbie, Solarsido, but we can’t be lax with their inexperience. Nothing is certain. A competition _is_ a competition. I really need you to win them over within the next five months before another company does.”

_“Them?”_

“Hyejin will only meet you once she’s made the final decision. It’s her representative you’ll be convincing. She was the pastry chef who provided the sweets at Soo’s fundraiser.”

“Um.” An upsetting weight anchors itself at the lowest depths of Irene’s stomach. “Who is this pastry chef?”

“Wendy Shon.”

_Oh no._

“The party for Jisoo’s daughter is closing in. I’m not confident that I would be able to accommodate Miss Ahn’s representative.” Irene delivers the excuse civilly, albeit the curling of her fingers on her lap. She’s digging her nails onto her palms, forming crescents on her skin. She could live with the minute scars as long as her professionalism wouldn’t waver. She is desperate for an escape. “You could have Jieun be tasked with the project. Have her stay in Seoul this time around.”

Tiffany contorts her face. “Ji won’t be handling any events for an indefinite period in her condition.”

“Condition?” Irene parrots unsurely. “What condition?”

“Didn’t she tell you? She fell from the loft of her apartment yesterday. She’s been in the hospital since last night.”

***

Jieun would be prone to overworking her body. It’s the most probable cause of her hospitalization. She is an extreme workaholic, much like Irene, but flying from one city to another and stressing herself out in the span of two weeks was an overkill. Taeyeon had been telling her to go for a vacation. Jieun would say she’s had plenty of them in her childhood, being the only child of bankers, then would shuffle to her desk and be nose-deep in organizing the contacts for her next project.

Irene had worked undertime, with Tiffany’s permission, to storm at the hospital her office buddy is confined in, and kill Jieun herself, fruit basked in hand. Collapsing due to exhaustion, she would have understood, however, breaking your bones from laughing uncontrollably and falling from the loft of your apartment? Irene is vexed. She’s inclined to strangle Jieun for rejecting her suggestion of installing additional horizontal bars on the bare railings of her loft. The younger woman likes sleeping on a lone mattress than a bed, situating the mattress by the foot of the loft for her to be able to wake up facing the sunrise. She was a roll away from an accident.

A mouthful of Irene’s scolding is loaded on her tongue as she charges in the hospital suite. She sucks a lungful of air at Jieun lying on the reclined bed in her powder blue patient gown with a bandage on her cheek and arm, but the reproach dies and tries in her mouth at the person tarrying on the leather seat beside the bed.

Irene is mystified.

 _Impossible_. This has to be impossible. How many more times do they have to cross paths? How many more people do they have as mutuals?

“What are you doing here?” The door sweeps to a close when she treads carefully inside.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Wendy mimics her, just as mystified as she is. She has donned a yellow and white striped sweater paired with jeans, her platinum blonde hair combed loose atop her shoulders. No homeless person would have the cash to dye their hair in that shade of blonde.

Irene blushes at the thought.

She searches for answers from Jieun. Her friend has her eyes on Irene, ostensibly scared of the onslaught of reprimands the older woman would have blasted at her if she weren’t too flabbergasted on the floor. Observing the bandages on Jieun’s injured body, it would be cruel of Irene to go on with it.

Jieun eventually squanders their confusion through formal introductions, puffing out her chest as though she’s working up the courage. Irene isn’t quick on the uptake. “Wendy, this is Irene-unnie from work. And Irene-unnie, this is Wendy from, uh, college.” The avoidance of Irene’s intense gape is telling of her fear.

Irene grips the fruit basket tighter, the crisscross patterns of the wooden weaves constricting against the compression. Her mystification melts into a puddle, a volcanic anger erupting in her chest as she zeroes in on Wendy, then on Jieun in inquiry. “Her..?”

Jieun doesn’t answer.

_Seoul is such a small world._

“This is pointless, Jieun! She doesn’t deserve any of your time.” Irene spits out harshly, nostrils flaring, and the fruits jiggle in the basket at the jerky movements of her limbs in anger.

“You’re not being fair.” The hurt in Wendy’s strained vocals is elevated by the kicked-puppy-dog eyes. How sickening, Irene inwardly thinks. The blonde seems to be accepting of the insult thrown at her, but she knits her brows and hardens her resolve to defend herself. “You don’t even know me.”

Irene grits her teeth. “I don’t need to when I know what you did. You single-handedly—”

“Unnie.” The composition of those two syllables is akin to a plea. Jieun utters tenderly, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Jieun. She’s—”

“Give us a few more minutes please.”

“—hurt you before! Who says she won’t—”

“Joohyun-unnie.”

Irene is capitulated at the mention of her birth name. She doesn’t want to step aside from her spot, her protectiveness over her friend stalling whatever conversation the exes were having. But she couldn’t fight Jieun’s battles for her. Jieun is an adult. She can have an adult conversation with her ex without Irene breathing down her neck.

It takes five beats for Irene to knuckle under, securing the basket on a table with heaps of food before piercing an icy glare at Wendy and stalking off to the door.

***

Twenty-five minutes.

Twenty-five torturous minutes of Irene at the hospital cafeteria, a Styrofoam cup that once held hot chocolate now abused into a crumpled and misshapen garbage. She can’t choose what’s worse from the cup selection. The Styrofoam or the single-use plastic. Humanity’s compassion for the dying planet has been disappointingly disintegrating.

Like the compassion she had for Wendy. It was only an hour ago, Irene slumped on the backseat of the taxi, beating herself up for the homelessness fiasco that had tarnished their impressions of one another. She had initially formulated a strategy in approaching the pastry chef for their scheduled meeting, starting it off with a heartfelt apology, but with the recent discovery of Wendy’s relationship with Jieun, her emotions are in turmoil.

Irene doesn’t interrogate Jieun after slipping back inside the suite at Wendy’s departure. She prioritizes Jieun’s condition, and they talk about the recovery treatment her parents are arranging for her to take in Chicago, submitting her to have an indefinite leave from work. Taeyeon and Tiffany have been informed. Irene can’t control the frown, her sadness embedded on the curves of her lips.

“Wendy’s told me you two have been acquainted.” Jieun talks over the silence that has plagued the room. She picks at the fibers of the peeled orange the older brunette has given her.

Irene sits on the chair Wendy had sat on, peeling another orange with her deft fingers, droplets of the fruit’s juices trickling on her wrist from the gratuitous force she has afflicted on it. She spies the bigger basket of fruits brought by the blonde, and she chews over if she could have it disposed when Jieun’s inattentive.

“I said you meant well.” Jieun says, plucking an orange from the bunch but not eating it. “She said she _sort of_ gets you.”

“She thinks I’m a spoiled brat.” Irene snorts. There’s no verbal confirmation to the statement, but Wendy’s reactions towards her at Choi Sooyoung’s party had been straightforward. Irene loathes the insinuation, to be classified as one of those condescending entitled kids in high school. She hated their kind.

“I doubt it. Wendy doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“Just a cheating bone then?”

Jieun bows her head. The plucked orange is still in her hand, gently cradling it so as not to excrete its juices. “I told her I haven’t totally forgiven her for what she did.”

Irene stands, abandoning the orange into a bowl of other peeled oranges on the bedside table and snatching a paper towel to wipe her sticky hands and wrists. “You don’t have to, Jieun. You went through hell while she ran away to Canada like the coward that she is.”

“I _did_ scream I didn’t want to see her face ever again.” Jieun glances up at Irene with her head staying bowed.

“Then why are you seeing her now?” Irene tosses the balled-up paper towel to a nearby trash bin.

“To hear what she has to say. Because this time, I’m willing to listen. It doesn’t necessarily implicate she’s off the hook. As you’ve said, I went through hell. It wasn’t easy getting out.” Jieun averts her hooded eyes to the window, the golden hues of the sunlight splashing its rays onto her sullen side profile. Irene hopes it would enlighten her friend in the process.

She had been there when Jieun had combatted those stages of hell, the younger a sophomore college student working as Taeyeon’s apprentice, cataloging their clients and doing minor paperwork. Irene was the three month-old full-time employee going to the restroom to relieve her bladder, hearing the choked out sobs echoing from the farthest stall. From then on, she became the shoulder to cry on for Jieun whenever the memories of her unnamed ex overwhelmed her, lending her ears to the weeping confessions and frustrations, until Jieun was able to restore the confidence their break-up had shattered.

Wendy wasn’t there to see the ugly. What she has seen was the result of months of reconstruction. She wasn’t there when Jieun would have her breakdowns inside the restroom stall at work. She wasn’t there when Jieun had doubts after doubts for every person who’s had the slightest interest in her. She wasn’t there when Jieun had to reassemble the broken shards of her self-esteem, mend the heart that had been torn out of her bleeding chest.

“We haven’t gotten back together, unnie.” Jieun beats her to it, looking at her. “We just…talked.”

“You just spoke about unsettled stuff? Is that it?”

“Not quite.” Jieun rests a hand on Irene’s arm, sensing her protest. “No, let me speak first. She asked me for one last chance, just _one_ , to prove to me she deserves a shot. With me going to Chicago for treatment, I thought, I don’t have anything to lose if I give her an okay. It would show me how serious she is on pursuing me while I’m miles abroad.”

Irene snaps. “Not for long. She cheated on you, Jieun. When she starts to get lonely, she’ll become weary and she’ll be kissing someone else in no time. Isn’t that how she cheated?”

Jieun winces at the sudden trip to memory lane. “Yeah…”

“She could just deceive you. You won’t be able to monitor her twenty-four-seven. She could spout bullshit and twist it into the _truth_.” Irene paces at the center of the room like a rabid greyhound patrolling its infested territory. “She’s a hypocrite too! I made a mistake, and she categorizes me into a stereotype, but she’s the one who has the audacity to be high and mighty like she’s never committed anything wrong. And I’m supposed to be working with her!”

Jieun’s head jerks upwards. “You’re working with Wendy?”

“She doesn’t know it yet. She’s representing a huge potential client, and Tiffany-unnie gave me the job to convince her to hire TNT. It’s going to be a hellish five months.” Irene nibbles on her thumbnail, accidentally scraping the fine skin on her nailbed, tasting the copper from the blood that has discharged from the gashed wound. She has to be wearing out the soles of her shoes from her continuous pacing, unable to placate the jitters in her bones. “But take my advice, Jieun. She won’t last. It’ll be over once she becomes charmed by a pretty girl who showers her the smallest amount of attention.”

The air becomes stagnant, and Irene ceases her footfalls. She looks at Jieun.

The younger brunette is sitting upright on the bed, chewing an orange leisurely, locking her gaze with Irene’s. There are times when wordless exchanges are adequate to discern what the other person is thinking, a telepathic property formed by their in-sync wavelength. It happens before an idea spills from their mouths, just a mere concept floating in their heads that is unspoken and shared.

It’s a lightbulb moment.

Irene laughs humorlessly, body completely stilling. “You’re not saying…”

“I’m not saying anything.”

The two colleagues have more talking to do.

***

Irene’s scheduled meeting with Wendy is on a Monday evening. Her morning and afternoon were jampacked with phone calls for two year-old Naeun’s birthday party, guaranteeing that the Frozen bouncy castle and the Anna and Elsa impersonators her godchild dreamed of would be in attendance. Wendy said she’s available anytime within store hours, her courteously constructed paragraph in their e-mail correspondence a nauseating string of letters for Irene.

She hadn’t signed her name in the messages she had sent to Wendy, although it was against per company protocol in messaging their clients to edit out the _Bae Irene_ that would be typically spotted at the conclusion of the e-mail. It was just a one-time thing, she swears. She was adamant to avoid scaring Wendy off before their assigned meeting, but her face popping up on the doorstep of the blonde’s patisserie might have an equal effect. Irene will have to see for herself.

The name of the patisserie hasn’t been registered in the city’s online database, “no results” displaying on the GPS search bar of Jennie’s BMW. Jennie inputs the name of the building it’s in, the address showing up on the screen with the map indicating a thirty-minute drive to Apgujeong. Irene would have ridden a cab to her destination, but Jennie’s driving to Gangnam for her grandparents’ anniversary dinner, and she was insistent on getting her to hitch a ride wherever it may be. Jennie can be as persuasive as Jessica. Irene obeys.

When Jennie drops her at the location, Irene is greeted with a security guard posted by the vestibule to the apartment upstairs and a Samgyupsal restaurant to its right, no patisserie in sight. She wonders if she has gotten the wrong building, asking the guard for verification, but as she is told to round the corner, a smaller establishment worms into her vision, a display case of treats paraded through the large rectangular window and six round tables are shown on the other. Above the entrance, a wireframe white LED cupcake encasing an infused cursive R and V colored in coral glows warmly against the nightfall.

On the door it reads:

“Reveluv”

_Here goes nothing._

Irene makes a cautious step into the patisserie, clutching the portfolio towards her chest, as if to safeguard herself. Recycled mason jars (a popular product Irene has seen on the HWASA website) dangling from the planked ceiling are illuminating the shop, augmenting the lightness of the white brick walls. Irene likes the simple interior of the patisserie, a nod to her minimalist preferences, but on the question of its owner? Not so much.

Behind the register, Wendy finally notices Irene after serving a customer, her eyes slanting in discombobulation and curiousness. She unties the red apron, unlatching it from her waist and around her neck, the loosely tied ponytail bobbing from pulling the strap. “Seulgi, could you man the register for me?”

“On it!” A woman on her phone by the counter hops onto her feet and takes over, not even questioning the blonde. She can’t be a staff of the patisserie. The white doctor’s coat draped around her gives it away.

Wendy has her pale eyebrows fused in unison along with her guarded strides towards Irene, bunny teeth peeking from clamping her bottom lip. She folds her arms over her chest as she dims her voice to a whisper, regardful of the customers. “Are you stalking me?”

Irene would have yelled at her for the insane inference that she has dedicated her wonderful evening to track down the cheating ex-girlfriend of her good friend. But she burrows the snowballing hatred, brandishing the professional etiquette Tiffany has taught her onto her expertly trained features. She speaks placidly, coated with a smoothness of honey and silk, composed. “Don’t be absurd. This visit is for official business. We’ve corresponded briefly in regards to an event of Miss Ahn’s. I’m Bae Irene from TNT Events.”

The outstretched portfolio has Wendy’s eyes flittering. The fused eyebrows and rigid posture relax at their situation. Her response is tantalizingly slow, matted lips broadening into a knowing smirk, tongue-in-cheek. “Well, what are the odds? Have a seat, Miss Bae.”

“Irene is fine.”

“As you wish.” Wendy flips to the first page of the portfolio as they gather at a table, glancing at her with a quirk of her lips, yielding a trickle of mischief in her thinly veiled politeness. _“Irene.”_

Irene is seething already.

Her name feels poisoned, feels it tainted, deliberately rolling off the blonde’s tongue in way that is provoking the brunette to blow a gasket. She scrunches her fingers into angry cannonballs beneath the table, hiding her mounting temper from this dratted woman. She can’t let her be victorious. 

“TNT?” Wendy pats the underside of her jaw. “Do you specialize in bombs perhaps?”

She really is testing her tonight. No holds barred.

“TNT stands for Taeyeon and Tiffany, the founders of the company.”

“And you employees are called…The Bomb Squad?”

“Tiffany believes wit is an effective form of creativity to capture your audiences.”

 _“Where your parties are guaranteed to be explosive and your guests will surely have a blast,”_ Wendy reads out the slogan, palpably impressed by the crafty wordplay. “It is witty, I’ll give her that.” She skims through the pages, reading the anecdotes below the pictures of their completed projects.

For the remainder of their meeting, Wendy isn’t abusing the upper hand she has to royally piss Irene off. She becomes cooperative, taking Ahn Hyejin’s standpoint into consideration, supplying the brunette with the expectations the business woman has for her daughter’s upcoming circus-themed birthday. Her cordial performance almost erases the abhorrence penned in Irene’s book.

And Irene does what she does best, keeping it professional and poised, despite the irritation creeping up to her tense muscles for having to tolerate the pastry chef. She explicates their rates and scope of their involvement, plunging herself into work mode like clockwork with any client she has had, responding to the inquiries that are typically asked on the first meeting. The meeting goes smooth sailing for next half-hour.

At eight, they’re finishing their business. Irene preps the paperwork for office records, their company policy requiring both electronic and handwritten documents of their client’s info, the latter to be done by the employee during the first meeting.

“Oh, before I forget, you should jot down my work number. I just got a separate one for work,” Wendy says, enumerating the digits as Irene attentively iterates the numbers for approval from her client.

She shouldn’t have underestimated the pastry chef’s ability to tick her off at the final second.

“Zero.” Wendy dictates.

“Zero.” Irene copies her.

“Six—”

“Six.”

“—teen.”

The conical tip of the pen scratches to a halt.

Irene breathes in and out. In and out. In and out until the iron-clad grip on her pen relaxes. Her will to deck this woman is _strong_. Violence isn’t in the equation for a cool and collected Bae Irene, so she combats the urge to punch the daylights out of her, opting to conserve her thinning patience and professionalism.

“One-six.” She inserts the number one on the miniscule gap between the six and a fatty zero, which kind of morphs the zero into an overweight number nine, and she crushes it out to rewrite the two numbers above the dashed lines. Breathing again, it would have to do.

Wendy studies the writing in pretense, nodding at the form, her friendly smile deviously eclipsing the faintest trace of satisfaction. “Yup, that’s it. Oh, and the building’s had a change in ownership. They’ve renamed it, but the signage isn’t up as of today so you wouldn’t have noticed. You should update the address.”

Now, Wendy is just inventing ways to subtly screw with Irene as payback for indirectly tagging her as a sleazy con woman pretending to be a pitiful bum. But the brunette would rather deal with a forthright confrontation than this petty passive-aggressive aggression on her addlepated brainpower. The blonde is running the address in rapidity Irene can’t catch on if her hearing depended on it, toppling the words like she’s chanting some Harry Potter incantations.

“Can you _please_ spell it out for me?”

“A as in apple.”

Irene scribbles the letter on the form.

“Then P as in psycho.”

A husky chuckle nearly leaks from Wendy’s half-opened mouth, masking it by clearing her throat as an alternative for openly laughing at the squirming of the brunette’s downturned brows and crinkling nose. “Or you could go for P as in _piss poor._ ”

Irene would love to recite every curse word there is.

“And T as in tsunami.”

She almost writes a number two.

“You got it?” Wendy feigns an innocent smile, batting those deceitful eyes at the visibly irritated events planner. 

Her self-restraint may have been progressively fading, tired of the game Wendy is playing, but Jieun’s proposition keeps her sanity from falling. _“If she reciprocates any of your advances while I’m gone, no more second chances.”_

Irene returns the smile with a sinister agenda of her own, soothing the building tension on her facial muscles, pouring out her reply in a sweetness reserved for charming pesky clients as if she hadn’t been taunted into racking her braincells earlier. “Yes. I got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man, it really did take me another month to update. all i can say is that my quarantine brain has been stalling my progress lately, but i was especially careful in writing this chapter as it shows the main conflict of the story. i tried to make the details as vague as possible before the end of the chapter, and i think it turned out fine. can you tell what irene is planning to do? what can you say about it? your feedback would mean a lot :)


	6. w e n d y

It’s nighttime in Seoul’s youthful district. The pop-up stalls are buzzing with people. The nocturnal buildings have been awakened from their day-long hibernation. The streets are alive, breathing in the crowds of youngsters towards the promises of cheap alcoholic beverages and memorable merriment, and exhaling an intoxicating ambience of a vibrant nightlife into the passersby’s parched throats.

There’s a hip bar with a revolving door of patrons stumbling in and out. Booths are overloaded. Drinks are overflowing. The dancefloor is overcrowded.

Wendy is nineteen and anxious.

The digital clock on the wall tells her it’s a quarter after eight, a quarter after she had been told by Seulgi that she should dillydally in arriving so everyone’s eyes would be on her. Wendy isn’t interested in being under the spotlight, but she _is_ interested in Im Yoona. Seulgi has an ice-breaker for her, she said. They could hopefully waltz beyond the decorous custom of _hi’s_ and _hello’s_ and _see you around, sunbae’s_ Wendy and Yoona have circled into. Seulgi’s plot could be fruitful. Wendy should have more faith on her best friend. She squares her shoulders.

Every space of the room is jammed. Inebriated and boisterous college students with their sweat-stained bodies are everywhere, pressed against strangers and part-acquaintances, and Wendy has to steer herself out of the packed dancefloor to where her companions are. Yoona is laughing with a friend at a booth, the mirth expressed in her angelic smile makes Wendy swoon, her legs weakening into a state of jelly.

She’s a sucker for pretty faces.

“Hey, guys! It’s Wendy Shon!” Their friends are turning to Seulgi. Yoona doesn’t hear her over the Usher song, continuing to laugh with her friend. The introduction feels useless. Wendy’s cheeks are warming up at her spectators, and her kindhearted best friend fuels more gasoline to the flames, shouting above the music. “It’s my good friend from Canada, the straight-A’s exchange student in high school who became the frontwoman of our acclaimed regional show choir champions, Opera Gangnam Style!”

Wendy facepalms herself. Added heat travels to her face like a speeding bullet train unhinged from its brakes, and she slinks back to a wall, three tables from the arched brows of her distinctly bemused peers. It would have been worth it, had Yoona acknowledged her, but the object of her affections has been too engrossed to notice what has seemed to be Seulgi selling Wendy off to college scouts.

She resorts to hiding from her best friend’s blind ass, camouflaging herself in the shadows with her dark jeans and black Adidas top, while Seulgi squints for her amidst the darkness. Wendy has to reclaim her bearings before reemerging to her friends. Retrying her luck on Yoona will have to be deferred on a different day. Music reverberates from end-to-end of the bar, the discordant bass line prickling her spine as a girl casually props her back onto the wall as well.

“Is that your friend?” The girl nods her chin at Seulgi whose hunt for Wendy is still ongoing. The loudness of her voice must have been _that_ noticeable to have this girl remark about it.

“Yes…” Wendy sighs fondly at her best friend. She peers down at her Converse, her eyes spying ellipses of fluorescent bouncing off from the brown translucent objects within the girl’s hands. Two bottles of beer are in her possession. The fingers gripping around the bottle nearest to Wendy are saliently fastened, as if holding on to her life.

As if she’s nervous.

As if she hasn’t initiated their conversation herself.

Wendy would have turned down a drink from a stranger, but she has seen this person in campus, recounting her participation in a talent showcase during their freshman orientation. The girl’s soulful rendition of “Best Part” shouldn’t be a justification to ease her guard, yet her hand accepts the bottle, none of the spontaneous white lies she is hardwired to give to strangers at parties she has been to in Canada. Though Seoul may be conservative in comparison, she can’t be careless.

The girl’s relieved smile, radiant and blooming in the dimness of the bar, has Wendy smiling herself. It doesn’t feel like she was ever in jeopardy. Seulgi _does_ have an operative ice-breaker.

“What’s up with your friend’s informative intro of you?”

“She was trying to be my wingwoman.”

“Her wingwoman skills need tweaking.”

“Can’t tweak something you don’t have.”

The girl giggles. It’s music to Wendy’s ears. “So you’re name’s Wendy,” she says her name against the rim of her beer bottle, loud and clear—louder and clearer than the cheers of drunken young adults by them. “Did I get that right?”

“Yeah, and probably the other partygoers within Seulgi’s earshot. What’s yours?”

“I’m Jieun.” She clinks their bottles together, steadying a heart-pounding gaze at Wendy. “Lee Jieun.”

Wendy feels a heavy and warm feeling burgeoning in her chest, heartbeat doubling its rate, but the picture of Jieun’s smile shimmers into a foggy distortion until it incrementally pixelates into the background. She shuts her eyes then reopens them at her renewed visual field, eyelids leaden with a lulling exhaustion, and the flicker of Jieun’s face transfigures into two fuzzy cotton balls that dominate her viewpoint in her post-sleep haze.

But cotton balls aren’t heavy and warm, her gauzy subconscious nags at her. The heaviness and warmth seem to expand to her belly, and it is after her stare down she is able to debunk the mysterious cotton balls as a feline’s furry nutsack.

“Goddamnit, Colonel!”

Colonel Kimchi scampers to the floor, fluffy tail swiping at Wendy’s nose from his pouncing, his beady blue orbs swirling with innocence. He’s meowing at her faultlessly, with a questioning cadence, like he hasn’t been flashing her his hairy balls first thing in the morning. She grunts into the pillow. The door to Rosie’s room hasn’t been closed, explaining the ambush of her morning intruder.

She wouldn’t be having this problem at her new apartment, but two caffeine-addicted veterinary students had pivoted in her shop when she was closing up, kidnapping her in her own pick-up truck and driving to their apartment in Mapo-gu. Rosie was sulking about not spending enough sisterly bonding with her after the shorter blonde had relocated to her place in Gangnam, and Lisa’s cries of _“Unnieee, we miss you!”_ made her miss those dorky-ass kids too, more than she would like to broadcast to their smug faces.

Seven bottles of soju later, she was passed out on Rosie’s bed. The two women couldn’t be bothered to sleep in their rooms, taking the rug in the living room as their temporary beds, Sergeant McNuggets’ golden tail hanging precariously from the couch, a hairsbreadth into Lisa’s unclasped mouth. Wendy had stirred in her sleep in the wee hours of the morning to the cacophony of cussing and getting-ready-for-the-day ruckus outside of the room. She had been severely bushed to whine at their _“Seulgi is going to kill us!”_ and _“Joy’s gonna steal my bagels!”,_ only drifting back to unconsciousness at the _“Bye, babies, be angels to Wendy-unnie!”_

On the floor, this so-called angel’s meows are beseeching at her for food. Wendy can’t say she has acquitted Lisa’s furbaby from making her his seat warmer, but she caves in to her unrequited love for these bratty furry children like they are hers.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go get you and your brother your breakfasts.” Her throat is scratchy. She should be freshening up in the bathroom at this hour if she’s seeing Rosie for brunch at eleven. Try as she might, starting her day is a perpetually Herculean task. Five minutes of nothing should get her going afterwards.

As she slings an arm over her forehead, Wendy fixates on the ceiling, the ghost of nineteen year-old Jieun, meek yet courageous, cloaking the plain stucco above her.

 _“I’ll wait for you.”_ She had decisively declared at the hospital suite.

And Wendy is going to do just that.

***

Any variety of beverage, be it cold, hot or lukewarm, is a peril to a living, accident-prone disaster such as Wendy. Someone should just award her with a gold medal for being the “World’s Klutziest Klutz to Ever Klutz”. Spilling coffee onto her _pastel_ casualwear of a sweatshirt and baggy sweats on the day of Dongdaemun Plaza’s bi-annual Bake Fair is the fates reprising the Toronto Airport incident.

The discoloration on her apparel isn’t as bad as the one at the airport, but when her younger sister exits through the automatic doors of the Animal Hospital, face on her phone, Rosie vacantly drops spare change into Wendy’s coffee cup.

“Hey!” Wendy has to chase her rear at the hospital parking lot, watchful of the billows in her cup, as the taller blonde promptly bolts and surveys for the pick-up.

“You come any closer, I have pepper spra—” Rosie does a one-eighty, hand reaching into her parcel. “Wendy?!” She realizes in horror and stuffs the hazardous three-inch can, that could have scalded Wendy’s eyeballs into some street food delicacy, back to the safety of the parcel. “If this is what Irene-unnie saw, then I can’t blame her.”

Wendy is busy heaving from the spontaneous chase to make an intelligible retort, heart hammering against her chest, nearly sipping on her ruined drink. She recoils from the contaminated cup in disgust. “I need my coffee.”

Rosie snickers, seizing the car keys from Wendy’s pocket. “You need new clothes.”

Vanquishing the driver’s seat, Rosie takes the wheel as the other blonde rides shotgun, vowing they would get there faster with her driving, not relying on technology to map their route.

Wherever Rosie is intending on driving her, Wendy assents. The dress her sister had badgered her into for Choi Sooyoung’s fundraiser had been a sample of her eye for fashion. Modifications on her wardrobe wouldn’t be troublesome. She can cash in on a shirt and jeans this once.

Wendy glimpses at the passing scenery of trees, structures, people, and vehicles, observing the differences the city has from her hometown in Canada. Before she could mentally sum up her eventful five-week stay in Seoul, Rosie pulls on the handbrake. Their radio-filled cruise to a department store in Myeongdong is quick and unobstructed by traffic, and Wendy couldn’t even quibble about transferring to a budget-friendly store in Itaewon when Rosie maneuvers her to a boutique on the third floor that would have her wallet weeping.

“Jessica!”

Spinning on her Balmain pumps, a woman in her thirties removes herself from an employee of the boutique, joyfully beaming at Rosie. She has a cherry blossom shift dress on, embellished with sequins and floral details, and a white-collared puff sleeve blouse underneath, something Wendy wouldn’t have thought of piecing together.

Fashion doesn’t flow in her veins as naturally as this woman sliding on white socks and stilettos. Wendy hasn’t gotten the memo on today’s fashion trends. She would have snorted at the idea of pairing socks and heels, but this woman can gorgeously assemble it into an edgy footwear. Her self-consciousness of the woman’s intimidating aura thrusts her to browse on a rack of blouses, the pursuance of the items’ price range inflaming her skin.

Why did her sister have to drag her here?

“Rosie! How’s my favorite future vet?”

“Alive and kicking.”

“Jennie is out interviewing for our magazine. Is Lisa with you?”

“She’s still on her shift. I’m actually here for a different reason. It is my duty as a model citizen to report a fashion crime that’s been committed.” Rosie yanks her by the collar of her shirt as she attempts to flee the boutique, introducing her coffee-stained self to the woman.

“Wise of you to come here, young one. What can I help you wi— _oh my word_.”

“Jess, this criminal is my older sister, Wendy. And Wendy, this is Jessica Jung, Jennie’s boss.”

Jessica’s evaluating eyes go up and down from their differing heights.

“Step-sister,” Wendy elaborates.

“Ahh.” Jessica exchanges a handshake with her, Cartier ring grazing her thumb. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“We have ourselves an emergency, Jess.” Rosie’s flair for dramatics has Wendy rolling her eyes.

“Jess- _unnie_.” Wendy reprimands her sister’s negligence for formalities. Four years of schooling in Seoul should have gotten her to be mindful of her usage of honorifics.

“Oh, it’s no biggie. Jessica is _totes_ okay, ages aside.” Jessica must be Korean-American or someone who has lived overseas. For a person who is seemingly intimidating, she’s laidback and sociable.

“Look at her, Jess, she’s a fashion terrorist!” Her sister manhandles her biceps and is shaking her like a salt shaker.

“I look fine.” Wendy pries her sister’s grip from her arms. “Washing off the coffee stains should do the trick.”

“Faded cashmere and overstretched sweats for casual wear? Honey, you’re not going to a sleepover. Hell, even _I_ wouldn’t wear that to a sleepover. The fad’s fizzled out.” Jessica clicks on her tongue. “Your combo is a big no-no.”

“People at the Bake Fair won’t mind. It’s decent.”

Rosie is scandalized. “ _This_ attire is decent for you?”

Jess gives her a calculating once over. “Ladies, give me a minute,” she says to them and pads to the boutique’s back storage.

Cornering her sister, Wendy hisses at her. “This is too fancy! I have bills, Rosie. Bills! Plural.” Hyejin may have slashed the prices of her products as a token of appreciation, but there was the electrician Wendy had to pay to switch the boring pin lights into the mason jar pendant lights from the HWASA collection. She has written checks for the renovation payments, credit card dues for the purchases in installment, and splurging on a _single_ outfit would be impractical of her.

Rosie sacks her woes with a slap on her shoulder, and Wendy staggers forward from the force. “Don’t you fret, sis. Jess owes me a favor for dog-sitting at the hospital daycare during after-hours, and I’m collecting that favor.” Bending her knees, she sinks onto her eye-level. “I love you, but your fashion taste leaves a lot to be desired.”

Jessica returns, lugging out a mobile rack of clothes to the two women. She fingers through the articles on the hangers, grabbing a knitted V-neck sweater, suede overcoat and white-washed jeans for the shorter blonde to dress in. “Put these on.”

“I—I can’t.” Wendy’s conscience wouldn’t be laid to rest at how expensive those are.

“Go on, Wenwen.” Rosie applies an encouraging smack on her butt. “It’s not everyday Blanc & Eclare’s CEO dresses you up.”

“For free.” Jessica winks. She glances at a transparent container Wendy has been bringing along. “What do you have in there?”

Rosie had scurried her out of the car in a jiffy, and she had absentmindedly brought a container of macarons to be sold at the Bake Fair. She hands them to Jessica. It’s the least she could do for her if she’s going out of the boutique with free clothes. “They’re macarons from my shop.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Jessica merrily nibbles on the treat, chewing it decadently in her mouth.

“It’s raspberry.” Wendy says, anticipating for a feedback.

Jessica mirrors the expression Hyejin had when she had tasted the macarons, widening her eyes and lighting up in delight. She wolfs down a second macaron. “These are to die for!”

“Isn’t Choi Sooyoung your friend? Wendy catered the desserts for her weeks ago.” Rosie exults her business to the older woman.

“You’re joking. I shouldn’t have flown to Cali if this was what I was missing out! Do you accept bulk orders?”

Wendy is an awkward duckling in befriending new people, but Jessica is gobbling on her macarons with an arm around her shoulders like they have been besties for an era, so she fixes her body language to be welcoming. “I’ll see what I can do?”

***

It was Hyejin who had imparted Wendy about the Dongdaemun Plaza’s bi-annual Bake Fair. Her childhood friend, Wheein, a baking ingredients supplier, said someone from the kiosk line-up had backed out at the last minute and they had a spare slot for anyone in the business. The registration fee was cheap, and the Bake Fair involved publicity the patisserie could benefit from. Wendy immediately signed up for the opportunity that could bolster her customer count per day.

“And how much is a dozen?” A man queries as the twenty year-old cashier graciously repeats the price.

Wendy observes Tzuyu and her immaculate endurance for indecisive customers, silently praising the part-timer and the rest of her humble staff of three, composed of a server by the glass display case and a student baker at the back of the kiosk. The blonde had managed their kiosk for an hour, then attended a baking seminar the fair was holding, returning at 3 PM to an organized crew working harmoniously without her supervision. It wasn’t that she had her reservations leaving the girls by themselves, but they’ve been together for a measly fourteen days so their teamwork had her enraptured. The girls are fast learners, able to learn the ropes of their duties in the limited period Wendy had been training them.

She’s still on the pursuit for her weekend part-timer though, since she’s giving those two days for Tzuyu catch up on her schoolwork. After talking to a college-age looking guy, Wendy realizes she has underestimated the eager buyers of their pastries. The plaza is a hotbed for foot traffic and a tourist hotspot, but she hadn’t threshed out the likelihood of an increasing file of people in the succeeding hours, about thirteen waiting to be served.

While her staff are preoccupied, she enwraps herself in small-talks with her queued-up customers, promoting the patisserie’s lesser known goods, suggesting which pastry they should be getting respective to their tastes. It goes on until 4 PM, her mouth becoming drier than the Sahara as the wind breezes by at an increasing rate.

Wendy instinctively bundles the Blanc and Eclare suede coat onto her forefront, feeling quite spectacular at the revamped outfit she has snug herself into. Jessica Jung is a fashion goddess Wendy would gladly genuflect at her luxury-designer-clad feet. It didn’t occur to her how mismatched and outdated her style had been. In all honesty, she would just yank the topmost shirt from her drawer then skedaddle on her merry way. Rosie had been right on taking her to Jessica. Her staff had complimented the fashionista’s choice of wardrobe, raving at the emphasis it brings out to her blonde locks.

She loiters by the line, a trio of rowdy university students in the middle fawning about the host managing the raffle draws on the stage erected at the end of the columns of kiosks.

“Gianna Jun is the hottest _._ ”

“Man, it should be illegal to be _that_ pretty.”

“Her future baby with Lee Minho will be a stunner.”

Their chatter moderates to a whisper, baiting Wendy’s curiosity to rubberneck at their hummed murmurs. She beholds the masses of bodies part like the Red Sea to roll out an invisible red carpet for a scene-stealing brunette resolutely sashaying her hips in a white linen Off-White dress. Wendy only knows the brand she’s wearing is Off-White because of the label sewn onto the black straps on her alabaster shoulders.

Everyone is shamelessly ogling her, irises for camera lenses to memorialize this stunning figure strutting on a hypothetical catwalk towards the blonde, and Wendy has to wonder if these people haven’t seen a dress on a woman before with their close-to-drooling mouths and awestricken expressions. More importantly, they should be wondering about how Bae Irene is surviving the coldness of this breezy spring afternoon in a summer-appropriate outfit without the warmth of an overcoat, a clothing she had been shimmied into in their first two run-ins.

“Hi.” The periodic clacking of Irene’s leather Gucci boots terminates in front of Wendy. “My colleague from TNT is organizing the Bake Fair, and I saw Reveluv on the list of sellers.”

The people around them have a defunct regard for subtlety. Their eyes are practically shooting laser beams at them. Even Tzuyu’s concentration has straggled off from the cash register to her boss. The fixation has nothing to do with Wendy no their pending conversation (they wouldn’t be able to determine their convo with hundreds of people buzzing in the plaza anyhow), this she is acutely aware of, but has everything to do with the woman before her.

Winding the clock back to the crack of dawn during that fateful day in February, Irene had stormed into Wendy’s life sophisticatedly accoutered in an uptown partier’s sequin dress that glittered under the streetlamps, her ashen face rattling the blonde from her midnight snack conquest. It should have been a congenital reaction for her to study God’s artwork on Irene, stamping a proof of His favoritism on the brunette through her snapshot-ready image. She is attractive in all sense and definition of the word. But Wendy had been abstracted by her persistence, with a generosity of Mother Theresa’s and a naivety of a sheltered child, that she had rebuffed her appearance, unbothered.

Citing their numerous encounters, she can confirm that Irene does have this earth-stopping effect on people.

“Can I talk to you?” Irene hooks strands of ebony behind her ear, a silver hoop earring tacked on its lobe. She isn’t approaching her for business, having a friendlier lilt to her speech. The connotations of a good-natured exchange are received unpleasantly in Wendy’s conscience, the sensation invoking a rush of appalling nostalgia.

A vein throbs in her neck.

Something feels…off.

“We don’t have a meeting today.” Wendy rubs on her arm in thought. There really is no other reason for them to be associated with one another.

Irene _is_ Jieun’s friend, but she has made it evident at the hospital that Wendy is the devil incarnate. Irene’s benign performance at the patisserie was just her being professional, doing what she has been paid to do. Wendy had indulged on the respectful attitude, although to her personal entertainment at some points of their meeting, but she had credited the planner’s professionalism for wading through her hatred. It would be childish and immature to have their feud smite their responsibilities. Wendy can be civil. But outside of business, the two women getting along would only happen in a utopian society set in an alternate universe.

“It’s not about the meeting.” The business-like demeanor alters into a genuine one, feet balancing from one foot to the other. Taking a reluctant traipse to the blonde, Irene educes a rueful smile, bereft of the hostility she had previously spewed out at Wendy. “For the coat thing and how I behaved at the hospital. My outburst…It was out of line. I was only looking out for my friend. But whatever it is you have with Jieun, I am in no position to interfere.”

Guilt shrivels the suspicions that have sprouted, sheepishness overtaking Wendy from the stunt she pulled at the patisserie. She had unjustly capitalized on her leverage over Irene that evening, calculatedly pushing the woman’s buttons ‘til they were clinging on to the thinnest thread of her collectedness. And yet, Wendy is sentient on scrapping her walls, still distrustful of Irene’s true motive for apologizing.

“Are you just saying this because I’m representing Hyejin?”

Irene cocks her head. “That’s a little shallow, don’t you think? We can’t have our personal lives and work lives intermingle. You and I are reasonable adult professionals. We can be civil people while going over our business, yes? Convincing you to hire us will be a challenge, but I’m going to bag the event fair and square. And we started off on the wrong foot. As individuals, maybe we could give each other a second chance too.”

The proposition is a reminder of her rekindling a connection with her ex-girlfriend. If Jieun can meditate on giving their relationship a second chance, who is she to deny a compromise from Irene?

“How about it?” Irene extends her arm for a handshake. “Truce?”

Wendy watches the woman, glinting eyes hopeful for her compliance. She ultimately nods, trashing her suspicions and negative notions of Irene out the window. “Truce.” She complies, parting her mouth just to snap it again.

She’s diffident about what to do with this person she has raised the white flag with in a collaborative surrender, her awkwardness making a comeback. She isn’t well-versed in dealing with a somewhat-acquaintance who had hated her guts. Irene seems to have taken her stillness as a moment to calibrate what to say. Averting away, the line to the kiosk has downsized to five, remembering she’s here at Dongdaemun to sell pastries so she lamely offers, “Uh, so can I get you something?”

Irene responds with a hum.

“Hmm.” She traipses another step forward, eliminating the gap between their bodies, reducing it to an infinitesimal amount of airspace, filling the void with a dizzying flowery scent that tingles Wendy’s sensitive nostrils. The brunette leans cautiously before the glass display case, hovering her body without letting herself touch the glass. She examines the pastries in a scoping sweep of her eyes.

The perfume Irene is wearing is incontestably spellbinding. Wendy feels as though she has been tenderly laid on a bed of exotic flowers, overriding her senses with its scent. It’s definitely a nice smell, don’t get her wrong, however it becomes overwhelming the longer she is susceptible to the smell. She wouldn’t want to come off as rude by backing away, and by doing so, she would be backing into the line of the kiosk beside hers. She sucks it up, bridling the queasiness, standing by her examining customer.

Then Irene does a hair flip, her cascading waves of black tumbling to the one side, further exposing a portion of her back that isn’t clothed by the fabric of her dress. Her looks may have been accountable for these people “sight-seeing”, but Wendy begins to suspect of another reason why people have been openly staring at her.

“I’ll take a layer of your Japanese cheesecake.” Irene turns to Wendy, straightening her posture with a smile she has been presenting since she came to her kiosk. “Jennie loves it.”

“Don’t your cheeks hurt from smiling all this time?” Wendy almost risks to ask, but she doesn’t, nodding at the order and reciprocating Irene’s creepy smile with an upturned curve of her mouth. “Alright, just a sec. I’ll get it boxed for you.”

She goes inside the kiosk to wrap the order in Reveluv’s coral-colored box, busying herself to rid of Irene’s back from her mind. It’s distracting. _Very_ distracting. Her hands are itching to have them there. She thwarts the compulsion, prophesizing the reemergence of the fiery wrath of Bae Irene.

When the knots of the box are neatly tied and it’s Irene’s turn to pay at the register, Wendy walks out of the kiosk to give the brunette her order, thanking her for her patronage, but her courtesy is cut short.

A male jogs past the both of them, blindly ramming onto Irene’s back, elbowing her body to plummet towards the blonde. Wendy’s swift reflexes empowers her to swing the box out of their colliding bodies, utilizing her front to catch Irene from tripping over.

“Hey, kid, watch it!” Wendy chides at the guy, but he has already run deeper into the crowd, going undetected.

In their current chest-to-chest entanglement, Irene’s back is exposed for her scrutiny again, but in this instance, she has a hand firmly rested on the slope of her spine. She can’t see the look Irene has, the brunette’s face against Wendy’s collarbone. With a nervous gulp, she skims her hand along the woman’s spinal cord.

“Handsy, aren’t you—”

Wendy then tugs at something behind Irene, plastic triumphantly snagging at the slight _snap_ of its detachment from the dress, and she whispers into the woman’s ear. “The price tag of your dress was still on.”

Irene stares up at her. She blinks. “Huh?”

“I took it out for you.”

“O—oh. I, uh, that’s.” Just like their confrontation at Choi Sooyoung’s kitchen, the tips of Irene’s ears are burned into crimson. “I should. Uh. Thanks.” Irene squeaks out, snatching the box from Wendy and stomping away from the kiosk in a hurry.

“Irene, your change—”

“Keep it!”

Wendy chafes on her clavicle at Irene’s silhouette being swallowed by the crowd, matching the guy’s disappearance. She would have told her it really wasn’t something to be embarrassed about, then again, it would be adding insult to injury. Nobody would have liked to be flaunting the cost of their acquisitions, overpriced or reasonably priced. Though, if people could have had a gander at the numerals on the tag of Irene’s dress, their savings would be in tears.

Oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this has been worth the wait lol i kinda wrote it like wendy had this fetish for irene's back haha for the next chapter, it's been my favorite chapter to outline and you'll see why soon. before that, i'd like to know what you guys think irene would do?
> 
> the gianna jun mentioned here is actually jun jihyun, the actress from the legend of the blue sea
> 
> your feedback is very much appreciated :)


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